These Strange Familiar Things
by Laicamiel
Summary: He grinned. How he would enjoy rubbing her face in this. She’d be utterly shocked, he knew, indignant even. That sour little mouth of hers would narrow into a disapproving line, and she’d be channelling McGonagall out her ears. WiP. NEW CHAPTER!
1. Awkward Expressions

**Prologue **

**Awkward Expressions**

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Thump. Clutter. Bang. "Shit!"

It was the profanity bellowed at the top of her father's lungs that jarred her from sleepily wondering why her normally placid household sounded like a diamond mine this morning into sudden, shocked wakefulness. That couldn't be her reserved, proper father. She groaned at the thought of leaving the luxurious warmth of her bed on a summer morning, but also knew that her voracious curiosity would never let her go back to sleep now. It was a fearsome beast when roused, Hermione Granger's curiosity, even at the age of eleven. She sighed, stretched, and pushed back the sheets grumpily, swinging her feet down and padding into the bathroom.

She may have been dying to find out what the commotion was about, but some morning rituals were just too important to miss. Like brushing her hair. She looked in the mirror and shuddered. She had braided her unruly hair before bed, as usual, and it had come out during the night, as usual; it was now a cross between a frizzy brown haystack and a bird's – no, an eagle's nest. It was particularly grotesque today, she noted with a raised eyebrow. She combed the bushy mass into a semblance of order, brushed her teeth (something which as a child of dentists she knew she would likely be whipped for skipping), and took the stairs down two at a time.

She walked into utter pandemonium. Hermione took a step back involuntarily, her mouth open. A large brown owl was flying around the kitchen, clutching something in its talons, trying to elude Prentiss Granger's magazine-wielding arm as it swatted wildly. The owl hooted, affronted, acting almost as if it had some sort of important right to be in the Grangers' kitchen, great wings beating, feathers flying. It was really quite a beautiful creature, Hermione reflected irrelevantly. Agatha Granger sat in a corner with a bemused expression, watching her husband incompetently chase the bird. Hermione realized what the clattering and banging had been about when her father, looking up at his quarry, banged his knee against a wooden chair. She winced. "Goddamn it to bloody hell!"—it also explained the swearing.

Hermione stared in disbelief at the tableau for a few moments, then regained her senses, mind whirring. Something was definitely off about the ridiculous comedy rip-off being played out before her (apart from the obvious, of course). She realized with a start what it was, simple really. She should have noticed at once.

"Dad! Dad, stop," she called, trying to get his attention. The man had insanely good concentrating skills. Her mother was still sitting in a chair out of the way, watching the scene unfold as if riveted. She had an odd look on her face, not surprise, but something else…resignation? Regret? Hermione couldn't put her finger on it.

She turned back to her father, who was now standing on a chair and reaching dangerously. "Dad?" Shaking her head, Hermione went and grabbed his flailing arm, steadying his precarious balance as well as forcing him to recognize her presence. He looked down at her distractedly.

"Yes dear," he muttered.

"Dad, stop chasing the owl," she said firmly. At his look, she added a pathetic sounding "please, Daddy". He lowered his arm and gazed at her, an unspoken question on his harried visage. We have the same eyes, Hermione thought absently. "Dad, don't you notice something about this owl? Something strange?"

He exhaled and sat down hard at the table, lifting his head with an incredulous look at his daughter. "Other than the fact that it appeared out of nowhere, unexplainably came down our closed chimney, and is hanging on for dear life to a piece of yellowish paper?" He rolled his eyes. "So tell me."

"Owls are nocturnal. What is this owl doing fully alert during the day? It's a complete reversal of its natural schedule."

Prentiss stared as he processed his daughter's words. The owl, who had been preening its ruffled feathers with an injured air, eyed him warily, flew over to Hermione and dropped its burden on her lap, and flew out through the chimney in the drawing room.

Hermione gaped.

She looked down at the package on her lap. It was a letter. And it was addressed to her. She opened it to find loopy writing on…_parchment_? But that small surprise was nothing compared to the shocks to come. If she only knew.

_We are extremely pleased to inform you that you have been _

_accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

The next few hours were a confused muddle of disbelief, wonder and excitement. Her father was absolutely floored by the sudden existence of a magical world, and walked around the house with wide, permanently startled eyes. Hermione saw with some surprise that her mother, contrary to her excitable nature, accepted everything with calm reason, but again Hermione saw that odd look in her eyes, as if she was watching something happen that was bittersweet yet beyond her control.

Being eleven years old, however, and in the excitement of discovering for the first time an entire world of knowledge that she had never known existed, Hermione quickly forgot all about that brief puzzling glance into her mother's mind. She was much too excited about all the new books she was going to get to read.

She did not remember the awkward expression on her mother's face for a long time.

* * *

The muted clinking and scraping of silverware filled the silence. Meals were always silent for the three who shared this breakfast table, painfully proper, every pale hair in place on each pedigreed head. The kippers were tender, the raspberries ripe and flavourful, the clotted cream fresh. A snowy tablecloth was laid with gold-edged china and pure silver cutlery. Diminutive, wide-eyed creatures scampered silently around, anticipating every move of the table's occupants. 

The Malfoys were oblivious.

A house-elf scurried into the dining room with the morning's post, barely making it through the massive doors which swung back with enough force to send it flying across the highly polished floor of the foyer into the front door. It approached the haughty head of the household and said in a cringing little voice, wrinkled paw outstretched, "Your owl post, Master Malfoy."

Lucius Malfoy snatched the stack of sealed parchment without a glance at his snivelling house-elf. Putting aside the _Daily Prophet_ he had been sneering delicately at, he rifled through his post with manicured fingers. Letter after letter was tossed into the pile of indifferent paperwork for his desk: reports from the Ministry, something from the Board of Governors, a formal complaint filed against him by some whinging Ministry clerk who claimed he had "acted inappropriately" around her (ungrateful bint, he thought with distaste), another letter from that idiot Fudge—ah. There it was, in green ink.

_ Draco Malfoy  
Dining Hall  
Malfoy Mansion  
Wiltshire, England_

"Draco," he drawled smoothly without looking at his eleven-year-old son, "your Hogwarts letter has arrived." The boy looked up, excitement colouring his features, turning him for a moment from a snotty, pinched-looking brat to a rather charming (if pale) child. Lucius slit open the envelope and read the brief letter from the Deputy headmistress, and unfolding the supply list, placed it by Narcissa's plate. "Take him to Diagon Alley, will you, and get his school things," he said with obvious boredom.

She didn't respond right away, and looking up Lucius saw that she was sharing a smile with Draco, a proud look in her eyes, and a reflection of the anticipation that shone so brightly in her son's. Lucius felt something dark and bitter at their private moment of connection, and his words came out in an icy rage which startled his wife and son.

"There is no need to act as if the boy has done something to be proud of," he bit out. The other two occupants of the table stared at him, Draco looking as if he had been struck. "You must stop coddling him, Narcissa. It is enough thanks that he didn't disgrace us by not getting into Hogwarts—den of idiotic Gryffindors though it may be, it is still the best Wizarding school in the United Kingdom." He glared at Draco, whose face was frozen in an expression halfway between anger and misery, and who looked as if he was itching to speak. "Something you wish to say to me, Draco?" Lucius asked his son coldly.

Draco swallowed, feeling very small and weak under that penetrating gray stare. Like stones were crushing him. "No," he mumbled out in a low voice.

"What's that?" said Lucius sharply.

"No, Father," Draco said, louder. He blinked back tears he hoped desperately his father wouldn't see, cursing his own weakness. Father would never let him hear the end of it if he started crying now, for no reason. "May I be excused, please, Father?" young Draco asked in as steady a voice as he could manage. He squirmed under the stare levelled at him.

"Very well," came the well-modulated answer. Draco got up, for once not caring that his chair scraped the floor in a horrendously ill-bred manner, and fled from the room. As the door swung shut behind him, he heard his father speaking to his mother.

"The boy is a pathetic excuse for a Malfoy. You've ruined him with your mollycoddling. I told you he should have gone to Durmstrang..."

He swallowed convulsively and walked faster, then broke into a run, his footsteps on the marble floors echoing in the cavernous halls of the Mansion. As he entered his bedchamber and closed the door behind him with relief, he wished he could have held it in his hands.

His first letter.

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	2. Disarranged and Broken

**Chapter 2 – Disarranged and Broken**

Hermione Granger stepped off the bright red Hogwarts Express onto sunny Platform 9 ¾ with a smile on her face and a light, excited step. She was home! Her last summer before commencement. By this time next year she would be leaving Hogwarts behind forever and embarking on real life with its myriad possibilities. She frowned. There was still the minor issue of Voldemort, of course. Things had been escalating recently though, and it seemed that the final battle must come soon. Shaking her hair back in a carefree gesture, she pushed these unpleasant thoughts away. Today such dark things seemed unreal, beyond the realm of possibility.

She impatiently made her slow progress toward the luggage compartment through the jostling, chattering crowd. She grinned and waved at Harry and Ron as they left with the Weasleys. They had said their proper goodbyes on the train, and would undoubtedly be seeing each other soon at the Burrow.

Hermione hoisted her trunk, hefted it onto a trolley and pushed through the barrier into King's Cross station, searching for her parents among the rushing Muggles that the thronged the platform. She grunted as a couple of scruffy teenagers slammed past her and disappeared into the pushing mass of humanity. She muttered an impolite word after them with a scowl, then turned her attention back to the crowd. _Odd_, she thought. _I don't see them. They're usually early._

She waited for about half an hour, tapping her foot in increasing irritation, and then decided to take a taxi home. Perhaps they had taken ill. At any rate, they knew Hermione was a smart, resourceful girl with a sensible head on her shoulders (she smiled guiltily at the thought of their reaction if they ever found out what she had gotten up to at Hogwarts). They were probably expecting her at home.

The taxi soon pulled up in front of the Granger residence and the driver got out to help Hermione with her luggage. She looked towards the home she had been away from for ten months, squinting in the sun, a warm feeling welling up in her. Dragging her trunk along behind her on the footpath, she walked toward the house with her head slightly bowed. The afternoon sun was beating directly into her eyes, the bright glare behind the house transforming it into a dark silhouette.

Hermione left her trunk on the veranda and rang the doorbell. She waited, bouncing from foot to foot, but there was no answer. _Strange_, she thought again. _Maybe they got the dates mixed up for my arrival._ She tried the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked. They must have left it open for her.

She entered the house and walked up the shadowy hall, calling her parents. It was oddly dark despite the harsh afternoon sunlight. Hermione saw as she passed the drawing room that all the blinds were drawn, the room cloaked in shadow. There was no light except for a thin white line around the edge of each window. "Mum? Dad? Anyone home?"

She reached the bottom of the stairs and tripped over a dark shape, stumbling in the dim hall. She blinked, peering down at it, then with dawning horror recognized her father's blue and red argyle socks...his weekend trousers, clothing bony legs that were stuck at unnatural angles...his bent back, slumped toward the ground, shoulders hunched and face in the carpeted step.

Alarm short-circuited Hermione's brain as she gasped and dropped to her knees, heart pounding as she searched for a pulse on his twisted neck.

Nothing.

A choking, gurgling noise came up from within her suddenly collapsing lungs, jarring in the stifling silence. She staggered back, shock freezing her mind. She stared at her father, always the epitome of the dignified English gentleman, sprawled half on the rough carpet of the stairs and half on the bare wooden floor, humiliated.

Dead.

A sudden new fear checked the rising bile in her throat.

She jumped up so fast her head spun, running down the hall to the kitchen, the dining room, the family room. All the curtains were drawn, all the rooms deserted and dark. "Mum?" she called shrilly. "_Mum!_" Her voice caught in her throat and she struggled to breathe. She tried to push the horrid clamping feeling away, to banish from her mind the certainty that her mother was..._no_.

She panted at the bottom of the staircase, eyes averted, closing her eyes tightly at the thought of stepping over her fallen Dad. She took a noisy breath, looked down, and accomplished it in one lurching leap, racing up with muffled thuds, and then she was on the landing, looking around her at the empty hall. All of the bedroom doors yawned open, and Hermione could see that here, too, some malevolent hand had systematically blocked out the sunlight. The windows were all covered, like blindfolded eyes.

Sweating, her legs shaking, she reached the first bedroom door. Her parents' room. The door stood ajar, and she could just see the lumpy mass of the rug that normally lay beside the bed, crumpled up in a heap in the doorway. _What had happened here?_ Forgetting to breathe, Hermione put her damp hand on the wood and pushed inward slowly. The large creak startled her and she jumped spasmodically. Unable to take the horrible pressure anymore, she gave the door a push and followed through with her body as it swung in. She glanced around fearfully.

The room was empty. Various items were strewn around the room, lying disarranged and broken, not in their places. Light-headed, her hands shaking, Hermione fell against the wall and slumped down to the floor, breathing heavily. She didn't think she could handle another ordeal like that.

She closed her eyes momentarily to steady herself. Rising from the floor, she walked out to the hall and peeked into the guest room quickly, not giving herself a chance to chicken out. It was undisturbed, pristine from the last frantic cleaning Agatha Granger had given it. She did everything that way; with an almost hyperactive enthusiasm and energy that infected those around her. Of course it also translated into high stress levels; Hermione had always had the irrational impression that her mother was waiting for something, something dreaded and inevitable, and she wanted to cram as much as she could into the time she had left.

Hermione swallowed as she recalled this childish fancy she had always amused herself with. Perhaps she had been too hasty to dismiss the signs as products of an overactive imagination. She felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to distract herself. Just one room left, now. Hers.

As she opened the door her heart stopped. Her mother lay sprawled on the carpet, face up, glazed eyes staring sightlessly in an expression of frozen horror. Her beautiful features were contorted in such terror that Hermione reeled at what she must have seen and felt in her last moments. For she was definitely gone from this world. No one could still be living who lay in such a grotesque, unnatural position—Hermione felt her nausea returning with a vengeance and had to look away, her hand over her mouth. She could not look at the twisted body of the woman who had borne and nurtured her for another moment. Her body shuddered violently, a loud sob erupting from inside her, yet doing nothing to loosen the hard knot in the middle of her chest. Her vision started to flash black, dizziness overtaking her senses.

She stumbled out to the hallway and into her washroom, collapsing to her knees over the toilet and retching. She threw up until her stomach muscles were cramping and she had completely emptied herself of the food she had enjoyed with such excited anticipation on the train.

Lying shivering on the freezing tile floor, eyes wide and glassy, she felt some semblance of coherent thought returning as she allowed herself for the first time to think about who had done this. There was only one rational (_Rational—ha!_ thought Hermione hysterically) explanation, only one possibility that made any sense.

But even in a severe state of shock, Hermione Granger's mind pointed out something that just didn't fit. She wished for a moment that her mind would just leave off, just for now, just for a little while. She shut her eyes and tried to do the same to her brain, but she soon decided that she had best focus on this minor conundrum, because otherwise the terrifying images would start flashing mercilessly across her eyelids.

Hermione moaned and dragged her suddenly rock-heavy body to a standing position. The walk to the front door was a blurred refusal to look at her surroundings, especially when she reached the bottom of the stairs. She walked into the bright sunlight, squinting at the sudden contrast from the dark tomb she had just exited. The sun was a little lower in the sky now, the shadows a little longer, and once her sight had adjusted, she saw that the sun, while still behind the house, was softer.

She raised her gaze to the sky, looking for a specific image—the image she had missed on her way in, head ducked and attention focused on lugging her trunk. Shading her eyes, she saw it, grotesque and green, floating above the house and a little to the right.

The Dark Mark.


	3. Voices

Hey guys! Yay, I got some reviews. Thanks so much for the kind words. Love to all.

Disclaimer: As if anyone would believe me if I actually claimed ownership. Ridiculous.

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**Chapter 3 - Voices**

Draco Malfoy turned over in bed, putting his hands over his ears to block out the occasional masculine grunts and more frequent feminine yelps and moans that were coming from his parents' room. Dear God, hadn't they ever heard of a silencing charm? Even an incompetent third year Gryffindor could handle such a simple spell.

He cursed the unfortunate long-standing shit traditions that designated this hallway the Residential Chambers and prevented them from adding thicker walls to the original elegant construction of the bedrooms. _The Manor must be preserved in its original state_. It was practically a bloody law.

Draco had learned long ago that one did not question the Malfoy Law. (Malfoys were not crass enough to have ever written down any of this where common eyes could defile it, but that is not to say that the Law was any less rigid and all-encompassing due to its unspoken nature.)

Narcissa let out a thin high wail.

"Fuck!" Draco got up from his sinfully comfortable four poster and stomped over to his dresser in the dark, banging various body parts in the process, and felt around for his wand. He was not in a good mood when he finally located it on the floor next to his mahogany dressing table (incidentally, mahogany is a very hard wood).

"_Lumos_."

He walked around the perimeter of his bed and cast a silencing charm, then flopped back onto the mattress with a groan. _Great. Now I'm not even remotely sleepy anymore._ He muttered another foul word in his parents' direction. They always forgot to ward their nocturnal activities from listening ears on the first few nights after his return from Hogwarts.

How easily they overlooked his presence was not lost on Draco, but by now these almost insignificant slights were an indistinguishable thread in the fabric of his home life, one more thing that made being at home like wearing robes he had outgrown, a little too snug at the collar and shoulders. Just uncomfortable enough that he could never relax.

He sighed and rolled over. Tomorrow it would begin again, the summer "re-education" his father made him go through every year. Lucius was not fond of Hogwarts' leadership, to put it lightly—that was no secret—but not only did he despise Dumbledore, he felt that the entire curriculum the old wizard oversaw was total rubbish.

During the holidays, Lucius drilled into his son the basic principles of the Malfoy outlook on life: theories on Wizard-Muggle relations, the importance of pure blood and ancestry, cutthroat business practices, finance and economics, the social order, the responsibilities of the male as head of the household and on and on....

It was so fucking boring, and so much work. If there was anything Draco Malfoy hated it was honest work.

The only bright spot in all this was the fact that it gave him some one-on-one time with his cold and withdrawn father, even if Lucius spent most of it berating Draco in icy disapproval.

Also, once in a while as a reward Lucius would allow Draco glimpses of minor Dark magic, almost harmless spells like undetectable cheating charms and various wicked pranks that went just beyond the line that divided mischievous from malicious.

Draco relished not only the abilities these charms gave him but the thrill of the forbidden they afforded, however brief and petty. He had used them already at Hogwarts with no one the wiser, and each time he whispered the words he felt an invisible thread connecting him to Lucius.

Draco tried not to think about the eventual end to the path his father was setting him on and the gruesome acts that would accompany the journey, knowing only that in this, he would not—could not—fail his father. Any price was worth the absence of that contemptuous disgust he saw every time he looked into his father's eyes; Draco was not fool enough to believe he would ever encounter warmth or approval there.

But it would be enough, to not feel that icy blast of displeasure and see the disappointment in the opaque grey irises that exactly mirrored his own.

Tomorrow it would begin.

-:-:-:-:-:-

"Stand up straight! Fix your grip!" A sharp finger jabbed Draco between the shoulder blades.

He gritted his teeth and stiffened his posture, concentrating on the proper form for his fingers on the wand he gripped in his clammy hands. Maple, with a core of manticore eyelash. He hadn't heard the end of that one for months. According to Lucius, maple was exceptionally sissy and absolutely inappropriate for a Malfoy. Any Malfoys worth their name displayed their carved ebony or mahogany wands with pride. At the time, eleven-year-old Draco had been crushed, though he had known even then that it would be unwise to show his feelings. Now however these little routine incidents were nothing more than hits he didn't feel, bouncing off his armour without visibly harming him. Besides, things like that had been dwarfed by other, larger ones long ago.

Fingers snapped sharply in front of his face. "Concentrate!" barked Lucius. "Why I was cursed with such a worthless excuse for a son, I can never fathom," he muttered just loud enough for Draco to catch.

He pressed his lips together until they were white and stared stone-faced at the ocelot writhing on the grass before him. She was beautiful, in a wild, untamed way. Right now she was restrained by painful invisible ropes, angry and affronted.

Today Draco stood at a crossroads. This was the first time Lucius had asked him to attempt an Unforgivable, or even broached the subject to him. It was an unspoken signal that the time of his initiation was drawing closer, if he were to prove himself worthy. He was to perform the Cruciatus curse on the bound creature and would not be dismissed until he succeeded.

Already Draco had tried and failed three times; it was surprisingly difficult, and the sweat was gathering on his pale forehead. _Summon the hate_, his father's voice echoed in his head, _the contempt_. _See how pathetic she is. She deserves to suffer._ He swallowed and tried to assemble some strong negative feelings. Since he hadn't any regarding the beautiful cat lying at his feet, he dredged up memories he had tried to bury deep in the dusty back shelves of his mind.

_Draco was jerked from his mother's warm embrace, which smelled like new snow, hard fingers digging into his thin shoulder with bruising force. The boy is five years old now. He doesn't need you anymore. Boys don't love their mothers, you know, the voice sneered. It was smooth, melodic, cultured, and entirely sinister. Do not touch him, Narcissa. Your wretched grasping will ruin the boy..._

The ocelot had silvery eyes. So cold, so dazzling. Dangerous.

_He was running, lungs burning, breaths coming in short gasps in time with the pounding of his shoes on the ground. He saw it up ahead through a wet blur, his sanctuary, but he knew he wouldn't make it. He could almost feel his pursuer's breath on his neck. The burly manservant grabbed him from behind, ropy arms squeezing around his ribs. Draco heard one snap with a sickening crunch. The tears blurred his vision, as they fell he failed to see the hand swinging in for the slap... Malfoys do not run away, said his father derisively, silver eyes full of disgust, Malfoys never, never cry..._

Draco felt the rage building, slow and steady.

"Visualize her pain," Lucius grated into his ear. "Let her screams fill your mind..." he said hoarsely, breathing hard.

The hate built to a crescendo, and Draco saw a sneering white face that mirrored his own, pale hair falling forward, visualized the eyes turn dull grey with pain and shock, and extended his right arm, tense and shaking.

"_Crucio_," he said in a low dangerous growl. He felt... _evil_... awaken in his body, rush through his veins and make his blood sing.

He heard the shrieks in his head, shivering in ecstasy. He saw Lucius, twisted and wrecked, pleading for mercy. He didn't want to stop—the presence didn't want him to stop.

"_Crucio_," he shouted, reveling in the painfully delicious overload in his brain.

"That's my boy," said his father proudly. "Quite a rush, isn't it?" The voice was all wrong, coming from by his shoulder and totally devoid of pain. _Wait._

Confused, Draco looked down at the Lucius he had been torturing and saw only a tragically broken feline, bloody and motionless.

He started and dropped the wand, mouth open in shock. He had seen it so clearly, his father's features a mask of suffering...

All he saw now was a once majestic wildcat, unconscious with pain, bleeding from various wounds she had inflicted with her own teeth and claws in helpless rage.

Lucius, noting his son's surprised silence, reverted to his lecture tone. "The beauty of the Cruciatus curse and the reason for its frequent use is that when you cast it, you feel as if you are cursing the one person you hate most, regardless of whether you have any personal feelings about your victim, one way or the other. Cruciatus is based on emotion; on hate. The stronger your hate, the more potent the spell."

Draco stared at him, trying to digest this new information.

Lucius grinned. "That was quite impressive," he remarked. "Who were you picturing with such concentration?"

Draco said nothing for a moment, then looked down at the ocelot, the blood blackening, staining the flawless emerald green of the Malfoy grounds. She would not last the night.

"Potter," he said without expression.

He felt the momentary weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The contact was fleeting. Lucius said something. Draco didn't hear the words, but he was aware that he had waited his entire life to hear that exact tone of voice. They walked back to the Manor in silence, side by side.

A curtain fluttered, then fell back into place, in a tower window that faced the lawns.

No one heard the woman's weeping in that cold empty corner of the manse. Besides, she had long ago learned to cry without being heard.

* * *

To my beautiful reviewers:

**SlytherinRoyalty:** Curses and hexes right back atcha! Look, I gave you Draco. Just for you, darlin'. Thanks for the wonderful long review, it made me so happy. I know, I sounded a teensy bit desperate, didn't I? I just really liked this story and I was hoping someone would read it. Also new to ffnet and slightly insecure (in need of encouragement, is a better way to put it, I think). I hope you stick with it! :o)

**quazzee:** Thanks! :o) No, I don't like the fics where they have these huge traumatic things happen to Hermione and Draco in order to justify them acting out of character, but they conveniently leave that part out of the story. It's kind of a major thing to leave out if you ask me. So I doubt I'll be fast forwarding anytime soon.

**Smartstar247:** Thanks! Hope you like the new chapter! :o)


	4. A Bitter Caricature of a Smile

**AN:** Just a quick note that I forgot to put in the previous chapter – someone was asking why Hermione didn't see the Dark Mark when she got home. I'm sorry, I didn't clarify it that well I guess. When she got home the sun was directly behind the house and thus in her eyes (she kept her head down as she walked up the path, if you recall), and besides she was excited to be home, focused on what would be _inside_ the house. Ta!

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**Chapter 4 **

**A Bitter Caricature of a Smile**

**

* * *

**_  
_

_And I'd give up forever to touch you  
__Cause I know that you'd feel me somehow  
__You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
__And I don't want to go home right now_

_When all I can I can taste is this moment  
__And all I can breathe is your light  
__Sooner or later it's over  
__I just don't want to miss you right now_

_And I don't want the world to see me  
__Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
__When everything's made to be broken  
__I just want you to know who I am_

_And you can't fight the tears that ain't comin'  
__Or the moment of truth in your life  
__When everything feels like the movies  
__Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive_

_And I don't want the world to see me  
__Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
__When everything's made to be broken  
__I just want you to know who I am..._

-"Iris", The Goo Goo Dolls

Night was falling in a peaceful London neighbourhood. A couple of children who had stayed out late in the euphoria of summer holidays lingered in the street, their mothers calling them in from golden rectangles of light. A screen door somewhere slammed.

A few streets over, in front of a white Victorian two-story, a nondescript car was parked at the curb. A man in a Scotland Yard uniform oversaw the loading of two body bags into an ambulance and then watched as it drove away, receding quietly unaccompanied by flashing lights or sirens. He turned to the front door, where a man in strange clothing awaited him on the white-gingerbread veranda. The two men talked in low voices as they entered the house.

In the drawing room, Hermione Granger lay on the sofa in a foetal crouch, arms wrapped around herself, eyes half open and unseeing. Ministry officials and Aurors walked past her going in various directions, once in a while sparing her a sympathetic glance but never slowing.

Albus Dumbledore stood by the door of the drawing room talking to Alastor Moody in hushed tones. Hermione was so far away that she didn't even feel the unsettling gaze of his magical eye swivelling to rest on her frequently. Moody nodded at Dumbledore and left the room without another word, leaving the white-haired headmaster to turn and look sorrowfully at the motionless form of his brightest student on the chesterfield.

He looked old.

He walked over to Hermione and bent to feel her hands. They were icy. He frowned at the blue tinge to her fingernails. He quickly straightened and went to the doorway. "Kingsley," he called urgently.

The Auror came swiftly. "Yes sir?"

"Where is the mediwitch? Hermione has gone into shock."

"She should have arrived by now," Kingsley said with furrowed brow. "I'll check into it right away, sir."

"Have you contacted Mssrs. Potter and Weasley?"

"They're on their way, Professor. I'll go and see about the mediwitch."

"All right, carry on then." Dumbledore walked back to Hermione, conjuring a blanket on his way. He tucked it around her shivering limbs, then stroked her hair back from her forehead. Sighing, he sat down slowly in a nearby armchair, for once feeling his years. _Why is it always our children who must pay the highest price for victory?_ He saw again in his mind's eye the twisted bodies of Prentiss and Agatha Granger. More innocents dead every day. _Is victory even certain anymore? _

He shook himself free of these thoughts. Too many were depending on him. Too many had faith in him, and would be shocked to know such sentiments resided in his wise head. _Unfortunately faith alone is not enough to save us. It never has been, in this world._

A loud thump came from the direction of the front door, followed by a muffled "Oof!" and running footsteps. Dumbledore smiled and shook his head.

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, skidding into the drawing room and almost tripping on the rug. "Hermi—" he saw her then, staring and prone, and stopped dead. Harry slammed into him from behind and they knocked heads.

"Ow!" muttered Harry under his breath, and came around in front so he could see. The two boys walked slowly forward, identical stricken expressions on their faces. They knelt before her, Ron taking her listless face in his hands.

"She's cold, Harry," Ron said pitifully. He closed his eyes and lightly rested his forehead on Hermione's. "I don't think she knows we're here." His voice broke. Harry put a hand on Ron's shoulder without speaking, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Dumbledore rose as someone entered the room with a clatter. The boys looked up in surprise. "Professor Dumbledore?" Harry whispered, sounding lost. His mentor gazed back at them with undisguised sorrow, his blue eyes dull without their usual twinkle.

An foot tapped impatiently on the hardwood floor. "Excuse me," said a sharp voice. "You people will have to clear out so I can get to work."

They looked over as one to see an aging woman with a severe bun and a dour expression, thin-lipped mouth set in an irritated line.

"Well?" she barked, her frown deepening. "Move, I said."

Ron snapped out of his trance and jumped up, shielding Hermione with his body, angry colour blooming in his face. "Don't tell _us_ to get out, you… you… whoever the hell you are! We're not leaving. Hermione needs us," he said loudly.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "What she _needs_," she bit out, "is medical attention, not the bumbling ministrations of two slavering teenage boys." Ron's eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head, and Harry stepped forward antagonistically.

Dumbledore held up an appeasing hand. "Please," he said and looked at the mediwitch. "She does need medical attention, and in fact needed it quite some time ago," he said, with a slight edge to his voice. "We will get out of your way and allow you to do your job."

She pursed her lips at the insinuation but nodded tersely. Dumbledore put a hand on each boy's shoulder and guided them out of the room; they were still tense with resentment. "Reminds me of bloody Snape," Ron muttered in irritation. Harry snorted explosively, trying hard to contain his hysterical laughter. Suddenly his eyes burned, and he didn't know if he was laughing or crying. Both of them became very grave then, glancing worriedly over their shoulders at Hermione.

"She will be all right," the headmaster reassured the boys—noticing, somehow for the first time, that they were young men.

The two did not answer, but exchanged a speaking look and sat down on the hallway floor to wait.

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Rain drummed rhythmically on the roof, wrapping a blanket of lulling sound around the Burrow. The usually chaotic household was unnaturally silent. Hermione lay contemplating the raindrops weeping down her bedroom window, alone and buried in quilts.

Back at home, she had been treated for shock and told to gather her belongings for an indefinite stay at the Weasleys'.

_The medicine still having its numbing cotton-wool effect on her, she went into her parents' room, rummaging at her mother's vanity table for the item she sought. After a moment her hand closed on it; she glanced at it fleetingly and stuffed it in her pocket. _

_She had steeled herself to go into her bedroom, unbearably relieved that her mother's body had been removed already, and spared a few seconds to pick up a couple of sentimental items and drop them in a bag, glad of the merciful sluggishness of her emotions. As she turned away from the dresser, a shiny package on her bed caught her eye. She walked over for a closer look and took a shaking breath when she saw her mother's looping handwriting on the card. _For our dearest Hermione.

_She grabbed up the present and put it away without looking at it again, about to leave, when she saw a half-crumpled piece of paper lying on her bedspread, revealed from where it had been stuffed under the gift. Scrawling, drunken letters spelled out _H-E-R-M_—and that was it. The scribe's time had run out. _

_There was no way she could manage this now, no way for her to even imagine reading what would surely be damned words from the pen of a dying woman. _

_The note went into her pocket along with what she had grabbed from her parents' room, and she fled from the bedroom as if demons were chasing her. Dumbledore, Mad-Eye and her two best friends were waiting for her at the bottom of the steps; her trunk, discarded in the afternoon's events, floated in the air next to Harry. Seeing the wild look in Hermione's eyes, they wisely refrained from breaking the silence and motioned her out the door. _

_The Knight Bus departed with a hiss and a screech of brakes, and Hermione, lost in thought, barely registered the hand that grabbed her arm to keep her from flying back ten feet… _

Hermione's mouth twisted in a bitter caricature of a smile as she watched the window. Strange that it was raining, crying for her at a time when she felt the tears had simply vanished from inside her, leaving an aching dry space. Ironic really, considering how she had always scoffed loudest at the Disney _it's-raining-because-the-world-feels-my-pain_ cliché. It seemed that today she wasn't going to be allowed to hold onto even her comforting mantle of intellectual dogma.

A soft knock came at her door. Ron poked his head tentatively in and stared at her with big eyes. "Hermione? Can I come in?" She just looked at him, saying nothing. He took this for assent and sat down next to her on the bed. Hermione turned away from the expression in his eyes, feeling uncomfortable with the fierce misery and pity she saw there. "I'm so sorry Hermione," he said in a choked whisper. She closed her eyes at the awful words. Was there anything more idiotic to say to a bereaved person?

She snapped her head around and looked him in the eye. "What do you want, Ron?" she said coolly. He jerked, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I…what? I want to…comfort you. Make you feel better," he said haltingly, confusion mirrored in his blue eyes.

Hermione let out a harsh sound between a sob and a laugh. "What are you going to do? Bring my parents back? Give it a rest. I just want to be alone." She turned over in bed, her face to the window. _Men. Always needing to _fix_ things._

She heard him gulping behind her, struggling to speak. Finally he said, "I just wish I could take away some of the pain, love. That's all."

Her stomach clenched at the endearment, something that had weakened her knees the first time she had heard it from his lips almost six months ago. It was such an unlikely thing for Ron Weasley to say, the earnest, blushing adolescent retreating momentarily and affording a glimpse of the captivating and mature man he would one day be. Now it made her feel something close to pain in her abdomen. She tried to recall the sweet warmth he always stirred in her, the way his smile affected her…but there was nothing. The space her first love had occupied was a gaping canyon, desolate and deep.

"Please, Hermione," said Ron, his voice breaking. He put a hand on her shoulder. "I love you, I know you love me. I would want you to be the one to hold me if I was in your place…"

Hermione spun violently towards him. "Don't you _dare_ presume to tell me what you would do if you were in my place," she ground out in a low, dangerous voice. "You have _no idea_. Look at you, you've got so much family it's coming out your ears! Seven identical orange heads all grinning all the time. Well maybe you don't know what I need, _Ronald_." She spat the last part. He stared at her in speechless shock, tears standing in his eyes.

"Maybe you shouldn't presume you know what I feel," Hermione said in a lower voice, looking down at the brightly patched quilt she was twisting in her hands. "Maybe my heart is dead to love." The last was barely audible.

Ron looked as if the ground had turned to dust under his shoes, like something had died inside him. "You don't love me then?" he whispered, never breaking his stare.

She fidgeted under his intense gaze and wished he would stop looking at her. Guilt ate at her stomach, bringing a harsh colour to her face. The silence stretched out between them. "I know I did. I know I want to. But I just don't," she finally said miserably. She glanced at him fleetingly, dreading the look on his face. He was standing with his back to her, shoulders hunched as if to ward off another blow. "I'm sorry Ron."

Suddenly she felt a freezing anger. Why was she apologizing? Wasn't it Hermione who had walked into her home on the first day of summer and encountered the grotesquely murdered bodies of her only living family members? It wasn't her fault she no longer felt anything for her boyfriend. She just had nothing to give him, felt no reason to give it.

He turned around and looked at her, surprised to see the angry mask on her face. "Look Ron, I'm not sorry, okay? I didn't do this; Voldemort did. He's the one that cut out my heart and threw it away, so don't give me those beseeching eyes asking for so many things I can't give. I don't need this right now."

Ron swallowed. "Okay." He tried to say something else, his mouth moving dumbly, but then he gulped, another silent sob choking him. He ran a shaking hand through his unruly hair and dragged a sleeve across wet eyes. "Would you like me to sit with you?" His voice barely wavered, but she could see the effort in the set of his jaw.

Hermione sagged and fell back against her pillow. "Just go, Ron."

She didn't watch him leave and close the door quietly behind him. She was looking out the window. Mockingly, it had stopped raining. She let out a sobbing breath and turned her face into the pillow, willing slumber to carry her away from herself.

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**AN:** Hey guys! I've been thinking about this story a lot lately, and I've got tons of crazy ideas biting my butt (I swear, why does inspiration always come at 4am?), so this should be an interesting one. Lots of strange but good twists. 

**SlytherinRoyalty:** I love your long reviews! You make me feel so special. :) Yeah, they don't talk about the mechanics of the Cruciatus curse, and I figured I'd take a little creative license ï


	5. Nothing Short of Extraordinary

**AN: **Hi everyone, thank you for your beautiful reviews and for letting me know about chapter 1. It's fixed. : Bows to her public and hopes no one throws tomatoes – this is a new dress : lol. Happy reading, and drop me a line.

(Edited July 16th, 2005)

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**Chapter 5 **

**Nothing Short of Extraordinary**

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Air whooshing by him in an exhilarating rush. The feel of the broom under him, almost alive, responding to every nuance of movement, every miniscule shift of his nimble body. The glinting gold sphere ahead of him, ever just beyond his grasp as he hurtled toward it. The colours flying past, blue above, green below, green above and blue below. He looped and turned and flew upside down, the world a blur in his peripheral vision, his whole being focused on one shining point of light. He leaned forward on his slim broom, arm stretched far, further, fingers spread and reaching, white knuckles on his broomstick. Another centimetre...a hairsbreadth.

And then. It was in his hand, cool and smooth, tiny wings twitching futilely like the butterflies he and Crabbe had caught and tormented when they were six, goaded on by proud fathers...he pushed the sudden memory away.

Relaxing, a pleasant ache warming his muscles, he descended in slow spirals, cooling down before he reached the ground. His feet touched grass and he caught up the broom in one hand, wiping his damp brow with the other, a deep, satisfied breath expanding his chest. Practicing Quidditch could take his mind off anything. It was the only time he could be empty of everything but Draco, the sky and the snitch, in a delicate powerful dance. And when he touched down and the world came speeding back, everything looked new and nothing seemed impossible.

Hunger gnawed, reminding him that he hadn't eaten for hours. He glanced at his wrist and saw that he had finished half an hour earlier than he had anticipated, which meant that dinner would not be waiting for him. He could just raid the kitchens however; his parents had gone out so the house-elves would do whatever he asked of them. Stomach growling, he entered the house and made a beeline for the bath.

He cut his shower short to please his complaining stomach, and soon he was walking down the main hallway toward the staircase. As he passed his parents' door, he heard a funny sound, like a muffled scuffling. A spark of unease shot down his spine. _I thought I was alone in the house_. A sudden fear made itself known in his brain. What if it was a minion of Dumbledore? It was a well-known fact that his Order were dying to get a look at the inside of Malfoy Manor, den of sedition as it was reputed to be (and quite accurately, if one were to be objective). But how could they have gotten in? The Manor was better guarded than Buckingham Palace.

A sharp cry cut off his ruminations abruptly. He sucked air in through his teeth. _Mother._ It sounded as if someone was with her.

He took a breath and turned the ornate handle, inching the heavy door inward. A pale shapely leg appeared, resting on the white silk bedspread, encased in a silk stocking, elegant foot shoeless. A vulgar-looking run went all the way up the stocking, shockingly wide.

Narcissa Malfoy did not abide runs in her stockings. Something was definitely off.

He inched closer to the doorway, widening it silently. As he watched the leg convulsed suddenly, tensed into a rigid line, then relaxed slightly. A weak moan reached his ears. He gasped, horrific visions insinuating themselves in his mind, and pushed the door wide, fling aside caution. He whipped out his wand and strode into the room with his arm extended, bracing himself.

What he saw made him stop short in embarrassed shock.

Lucius was bent over his wife, blond hair in disarray, robes discarded at the foot of the bed. His shirt tails were trailing and he had an intense look on his face. Narcissa lay under him, hair damp and curling at her temples, robes gaping all the way down to her bellybutton. She was facing the door, and her shocked exclamation at the sight of her son caused Lucius to start and pivot sharply in the direction of her gaze.

Draco's face flamed, and he looked away from his mother as if his eyes had been burned. He stepped back uncertainly as his father turned to look at him, seeing flashes of malice and fear in Lucius' gaze before a cold amused look settled comfortably on his features.

"What is the problem, Draco? Can't you see that your mother and I are..._busy_?" He said the last with a bit of a leer. Narcissa blushed delicately and looked mortified as Lucius bent and licked up her breastbone slowly, stopping at her collarbone and biting hard. She whimpered. Draco felt nauseous.

"Ah...I ah...s-sorry..." he stammered in a faint voice, backing away in sickened mortification.

"Draco..." his mother called out unexpectedly as he was turning away. He looked back in confusion. For a moment he thought he saw desperate pleading in her eyes, and then she grimaced and they were suddenly blank. The Malfoy Stare.

"Nothing. Leave us." He frowned at her oddly detached tone and walked out slowly, wondering if he had imagined that imploring look, or if it had really been there after all.

As he closed the door behind him his embarrassment receded a little, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something had not been right in there. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Draco growled and twisted violently, getting hopelessly tangled in the bedclothes. He jerked and found himself thoroughly trussed. There it came again, a scratching, tapping noise. He opened his eyes and looked blearily for the source of the irritating sound, finding a put-out looking striped owl sneering at him through the window. _What the hell. It isn't even dawn yet. _He swore and struggled to free himself, succeeding only in falling off his bed and landing with a jarring thud.

"Fuck," he whined. "It's too early for this shit."

He somehow found his way out of the sheets and sullenly opened the window. Cool summer-morning air drifted over his face, waking him up fully. Recognizing both the owl and the handwriting on the parchment, he ripped open the letter unceremoniously. It was penned in a loose, flowing script.

Pansy's writing. The beautiful script was incongruous with her hard-faced attitude; then again, her handwriting was one of the few areas of her life Pansy had any control over. It was a large part of the bond she and Draco shared.

Fraught with jagged rocks and sinkholes, theirs had never been an easy relationship; nonetheless it was there, and deep as the earth. They had never exchanged more than ten words at a stretch, but the underlying understanding was born from a recognition of themselves in each other. The recognition that both had buried themselves so far beneath the surface that only another with the same state of mind could see it. He saw reflected in her eyes the piece of darkness in his soul; she saw in his the empty chambers of her heart. It was not and never had been a sexual bond; rather it was like finding an identical twin, a sibling that had always been unconsciously missed.

It was nothing short of extraordinary.

The letter was characteristically brief, just a note really. _Something has happened. Come right away. Pansy._

Instantly his annoyed air was replaced with one of grave concern. All thoughts of his parents became insubstantial as smoke as he raced downstairs to the Grand Hall. He threw a pinch of Floo powder into a dining-room-sized fireplace and spared a moment to smooth his expression before he jumped in.

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**AN 2:**I wanted to let you guys know, that although I love to read well-written DHr pairings, I'm not a subscriber to the whole lust-at-first-sight-and-love-two-minutes-later-followed-by-redemption thing; it's a tad unrealistic. Of course some of those stories are so good I've stayed up til 2am reading them, but it's not my goal to go that route. I think that if they were to find their way to each other, they would have to face some hard truths on their own, especially Draco Malfoy. He doesn't strike me as someone who would change for a girl, especially not someone like Hermione. Besides I think that it's a more meaningful maturity if it's reached the hard way. Just some thoughts. 

Oh and don't worry, interaction between our intrepid hero and heroine is coming soon. (Hey you know what I just noticed? Hermione – m Heroine. Weird huh? Oh, that crafty J K Rowling. :o) )

**SlytherinRoyalty:** Thanks! 4am, huh. I finished writing this chapter at 5:30 this morning. Beat that, lol. Yeah, I love the Goo Goo Dolls too. Very emotional. Thanks ever so much for being my most faithful reviewer! I'm definitely feeling the love, girl. Hope you like this chapter, it's got yer boy in it. I got into his head a little more, I think it's really a quite fascinating place to be. :o) Hope you liked the chapter.

**Pleure:** Sorry about that. I was adding chapter 4 and I accidentally put it in place of 1. Don't be pissed, it's fixed!

**swimsuperstar04:** Thanks for the praise...I fixed the problem. :o)

**kelsey malfoy xox:** Ooh, another Canadian! It's never too late to say hey. Bonjour! J'ai nu a Toronto! But Ottawa is also a great city. I have to say, moving to the Southern US was a bit of a culture shock. Ahem. Anyways thank you for your confidence in me! I'm sorry about chapter one, but it's back now. Hermione's first love is Ron, which I thought I explained in Ch. 3...but maybe I wasn't clear enough. Sorry! And it is a Draco/Hermione story, but I'm trying to make it as original as possible. I can't give you my plot summary. That would be telling, now wouldn't it? Thanks for all the compliments! blush Yes, I admit I am a perfectionist about spelling and grammar. And very into details as well. I hope you keep reading. A bientot!

**Star-Angel23:** Thanks very much:o) I apologize for the chapter mix up. It should be fixed now. I hope you liked this latest chapter.

Review my lovlies! I would fain throw myself from yon cliff without the sweet reward of your approbation! (Where the hell did that come from? I have absolutely no clue. Just go with it.)


	6. The Storm Inside

Hey guys! Go me, I updated in like 4 days! I don't know, though, don't expect this on a regular basis :o). It was a freak thing. I hope you like.

(Edited: July 16th, 2005)

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**Chapter 6 **

**The Storm Inside **

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_"O that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!" _

- _Shakespeare, Hamlet _

The dinner table was oddly quiet, especially for the Weasleys'. Not much was said besides a polite murmuring now and then to pass this or move that, punctuating Arthur's grave report on national affairs. His days at the Ministry now were mostly spent waiting for news from deeply imbedded spies. Arthur's stilted account of Fudge's impotent raving soon withered away into awkward silence. Glancing around to see everyone but Hermione studiously chewing, he cleared his throat and looked over at her.

"Hermione, if you don't mind, there's something I'd like to discuss with you later on." She nodded and stared at her peas, wishing he hadn't brought it up during dinner, in front of everyone. She didn't raise her eyes for the rest of the meal, knowing she wouldn't be able to witness the expressions on their faces without screaming. She felt dangerously close to the edge as it was.

After the table had been cleared Molly ushered them out of the kitchen and they headed as one herd to the living room, including a reluctant Hermione, who had been flanked by Fred and George and coaxed with surprisingly gentle words to join them for a while. Ron and Harry made a place for her on the sofa and she sank down between them resignedly, looking neither in the eye, thus missing the misery of the one and the sympathy. Harry squeezed her arm silently. She could feel Ron on her right practically holding his breath, body rigid.

An owl swooped into to the room, startling its occupants, and dropped a rolled-up parchment on Molly's lap. She curiously opened it, and beamed in excitement. "It's a letter from Charlie!"

"Read it aloud, Mum," came a chorus of voices. She read his cryptic narration of his eventful trip to Russia, describing the rare breeds of dragons extensively, but saying only a few abrupt words about his difficult position (he was working for the Order) and the conditions of Magical Moscow, and even fewer about a girl he had met. It sounded serious, judging by how little he said; one could never be too careful around Molly Weasley. The woman could sniff out an opportunity for grandchildren years in the future and leagues away.

Soon the conversation was flowing again, subdued perhaps, but comfortable and easy nonetheless. Hermione felt, not for the first time, what a close-knit family they were, practically finishing each other's sentences and conveying entire paragraphs with one look. She had found it oh-so-touching on her previous visits. Now she was nauseous from the cloying domestic camaraderie, unable to breathe. She stood up suddenly, clutching her stomach. All conversation ceased.

Struggling to keep her voice smooth, she said, "Mr Weasley? What was it you wanted to tell me?"

The smile vanished from his kind eyes, and he stood and motioned her to a quiet corner, waving the rest of the family away. He looked at her sadly for a moment, and Hermione said impatiently, "Well?"

He swallowed and looked down, then said in a gentle tone, "I wanted to give you an update on the investigation. The Aurors have some new information…"

She laughed, sharp and bitter and loud, drawing nervous glances from the other occupants of the room. "New information, eh? My Muggle parents were tortured and murdered by Death Eaters, on orders from Lord _Voldemort_—" Arthur winced "—because I am the best friend of Harry _bloody_ Potter and as such an excellent _Mudblood_ to make an example of. What else is there to know, really?" her voice rose as she went on, until by the end of her tirade it was a trembling screech. Six redheads and one black-haired boy stared at her with shock and unbearable pity. Hermione shook her head violently, hair slapping against her face and mercifully obscuring her view. The ache of tears pressed in the back of her throat, and she felt a headache coming on. One of her stress-induced migraines; she hadn't had one for years now.

She backed away from the living room, away from Arthur moving his mouth anxiously, closing her eyes tightly. A ghostly hand seemed to clamp around her windpipe, suffocating her, as her mind crowded with echoing laughter and smiling redheaded faces.

Whirling, she flew up the stairs with thumping footsteps, burning eyes fixed on the advancing grey carpet. She ran to the guest room and closed the door behind her, jerking when it slammed, panting. She could still hear their voices, see their sympathetic looks, feel the warm discomfort of pitying gazes on her, even now.

Hermione opened her eyes from their narrowed wince and realized that the discomfort in question was actually caused by just one gaze—that of a tiny brown owl.

"Pigwidgeon!" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here?" Hermione had always been confident of animals' ability to understand humans, even before learning of her magical gifts. Pig hooted sweetly, and flew unsteadily toward her, aiming for her shoulder but falling a bit short and instead crashing into her arm. She caught him with a shaking hand before he could fall and injure himself, and placed him on his original target. He hooted softly again, and as if he sensed her upset, he burrowed his warm fluffy body into her neck.

She could feel his tiny heartbeat against her collarbone, and felt the tears finally release a little, moisture sliding down her pale cheeks. She hadn't realized how much her heart had been crying out for the warmth of unconditional affection. Pig had simply felt the pain of a fellow creature and put himself forth to ease it, expecting nothing in return, asking nothing of her.

She felt a sudden blinding pain in her temples, her nausea returning stronger than before, and she swayed. The migraine was starting in earnest now.

_I want to go home_, she thought and a sharp longing shot through her. Angrily wiping away her tears, she slammed the few belongings scattered around the room into her trunk and left the room, creeping silently down the hall into Ron's room. Apparition was out of the question for her right now.

The boys' belongings were spread out on every available surface. Hedwig was perched on the sill of an open window, looking out into the dreary sky, the curtains stirring in the faint breeze. She hooted a low greeting to the unexpected visitor, but otherwise did nothing.

Hermione picked her way over to the bed nearer to the snowy owl and soon spotted what she was looking for: Harry's broom. The _Cumulous Ten Thousand,_ or whatever the dratted thing it was called. It was the fastest broom in the house, a fact which both pleased and terrified her. She didn't allow her thoughts to run any further and picked it up before she could reconsider, pushing away her guilt and telling herself she would return it before Harry even realized it was gone.

Walking back into the guest room, she looked from her trunk to the broom and back again, realizing there was no way the former was getting on the latter. She opened her trunk and took out a few essential belongings, leaving all her robes and school things and taking only personal items and Muggle clothing. And her wand, of course—she could sooner part with her right arm. Bundling it all into her satchel, she shouldered it and swung one leg over Harry's broom, trying to banish her fear by reciting over and over Madam Hooch's first lesson verbatim to herself.

A sudden unfocused anger plumed up inside her, at nothing and everything. She forgot her fear of heights, of flying, forgot the blooming pain in her skull and her clammy hands on the broomstick, and focused her entire magnificent brain on moving _up_ and _out_ through the large open window.

She shot out of the window with tremendous force. One minute her feet were on worn grey carpet, the next she was hurtling through the air about twenty feet from the ground, and rising very rapidly.

She felt as if she might wet her pants, or faint.

Maybe even both.

She made a conscious effort to calm her intense shaking and concentrate on slowing down. Soon she was coasting along at a less nerve-wracking pace, and felt inordinately proud of herself.

She looked down.

The broom teetered precariously. _Definitely a mistake, that._ She shut her eyes tight and took a long slow breath before she returned her attention to the landscape below.

The charming town of Ottery St. Catchpole spread out beneath her, made up of crooked cobblestone streets and picturesquely ugly houses in a hodgepodge of architectural styles, each dwelling resplendent with its own unique personality. It was early evening, about half an hour from sunset, and the streets were mostly deserted. She flew along them, searching for a house of orange and purple brick.

She caught sight of it on her second sweep of Plockney Street. It boasted five turrets of varying height, but instead of little pointy roofs, they were each topped with a different enormous hat. Hermione remembered from last summer's visit that Luna lived in the Beret Tower, as she called it.

She had barely knocked on the door before she was enveloped in the dreamy presence of the Lovegoods, both of whom possessed the same eccentric but charming air that floated around Luna. The interior of the house itself threatened with its total disregard for the natural order of things to further upset her already unbalanced state of mind, so she actively ignored it.

She looked from her now good friend to her parents, smiling haplessly. "Luna…Mr Lovegood, I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Hermione Granger. I visited last summer…"

"Oh, yes, and such a lovely tea that was. We had a very interesting talk about—Nifflers, if I recall." Hermione blinked at Luna's father. She had forgotten about that highly taxing conversation.

"Yes well, actually the reason I came—"

"Hermione dear, forgive me for saying so," Mr Lovegood broke in, "but you really do look terrible. Is anything the matter?"

Right. Well, the of them _were_ notorious for their lack of tact. The pain in her head intensified into a herd of stampeding hippogriffs and her stomach rolled so dramatically that she had to close her eyes for a moment.

"You could say that, yes," she said faintly. "I really came to ask a favour, if it's not too much of an imposition…I'll be in your debt…"

"Nonsense, Hermione Granger," said Luna in a misty voice. "You are my compatriot, and one can never hike too far in someone else's skis." Hermione stared at her owlishly. "Anything you need, friend," she clarified with a starry gaze, her voice carrying a note of sympathy.

Hermione fought back tears as her mouth screwed up. "I…thank you," she rasped in a painful whisper. "I need to—an…emergency has arisen, and I need a fireplace to Floo home through. It's terribly important." Her voice cracked as she choked out the last bit and she looked at her shoes.

The air was practically humming with curiosity, especially around Mr Lovegood, Quibbler editor extraordinaire that he was, but they also recognized her distress and mercifully did not mention that she was less than five minutes from the Burrow, eith its perfectly viable Floo connection, and resembled nothing if not a runaway.

Luna stepped forward and silently took her hand, leading her to the fireplace and pointing out the bag of Floo powder on the canary yellow mantelpiece. Hermione reached up and grabbed a pinch. Suddenly she turned from the flames, dropping Harry's broom with a clatter, and hugged Luna with all her might. She bent down quickly then, retrieved the broom and following the green flare, yelled "The Leaky Cauldron!" and was gone without a trace.

Luna looked after her friend with a sad smile on her face.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The Leaky Cauldron was smoky and crowded, and Hermione wasted no time in getting out through the Muggle side into London. She slipped into an empty alley, grateful for the now full dark, and mounted the broom, lifting off without letting herself think about it. Before she knew it she was almost home. Spying her neighbourhood, she smiled bitterly at the idyllic picture it presented. She came down hard on her driveway, noting with vague relief that the Dark Mark was long gone.

Fumbling for her key, Hermione let herself in and made it to the carpet in the drawing room before she collapsed in wrenching, heaving sobs so brutal she thought they must surely tear her apart. She curled up in a foetal position and gripped her knees, rolling on the floor in physical pain. She was blind, deaf, to anything but the storm inside her. _Daddy…_he had been her protector, her guide. He had dried her tears too many times on too many dark nights to count.

But she remembered them all. She remembered his beautiful smiling face, and then interposed on that picture the one of him staring, dead but with such an expression of horror in his cold eyes that she knew she would be dreaming about it forever.

And he would not be there in the small morning hours to chase away her nightmares, not ever again. She bit her knuckles as the tears slid down her temples and splashed on the carpet, bit hard and felt no pain.

And her mother. _Oh, Mum. _A shuddering, sobbing breath._ Mum._

What does a girl do when she loses her mum? What possible avenue does she have to reconcile the loss of something so sweet and wondrous? How can she accept this leave-taking without going mad?

Hermione made high keening noises like that of a wounded animal. They got higher and louder until she was screaming herself hoarse and banging her fists against the patterned rug. Unsatisfied, she staggered up and looked wildly around the room for something to destroy. Her eye lit on the crystal brandy decanter and tumblers on the sideboard. She walked over and contemplated getting drunk, but the very thought of putting something in her mouth was beyond disgusting at this point.

She threw the tumblers with vicious force against the slate fireplace, relishing in this thoroughly clichéd but highly satisfying activity.

A crash. Then another. Another. And _another_!

And then the decanter, full of brown liquid that exploded on contact and spattered the room like blood.

"Fuck you, Voldemort! Fuck you and your soulless devil slaves!" she screamed in a voice gone hoarse with use and grief.

White spots danced in her vision. She gave a loud, despairing sob and buried her face in the crook of her arm, grabbing the arm of the sofa with her other hand as she swayed. The pain had been building steadily over the last half hour and now she felt it blindside her; she dropped to the ground, nerveless. Hermione felt the bile rise in truth this time, and with a Herculean effort she somehow found herself kneeling in front of the kitchen rubbish bin, vomiting her guts out.

In a fog, lungs and muscles burning, she found her prescription and dry-swallowed two fat pills, nearly gagging. Somehow she found herself in the guest room, wrapped in the pale yellow blankets, imagining she could smell her mother.

* * *

**AN:** Ah! The angst! _Quel drame_! Poor Hermione. I thought it needed to be done. I tried to be faithful to the stages of grieving: shock, denial, anger, grief. Was I successful? Let me know. I was tired of reading stories where she gets over her parents' murders so quickly. Next chapter: What happened to Pansy? Where did Draco go and what will he do? Dun dun dun! 

**SlytherinRoyalty:** Thanks darlin! The quidditch and the encounter with Lucius and Narcissa really happened; they weren't a dream. Sorry if that was unclear. No cliffie this time, hope you're not disappointed ;o). Hope it was soon enough. You're my most faithful reviewer, so I'm sending you chocolate. The good kind. (I'm at that time of the month when chocolate is very present inn my thoughts.)

**Pleure:** Thank you for the nice words. Don't worry, I'm not going to make him all emotional and sappy. I'll try and keep him in character, but I also plan on putting him through some life-changing stuff. So he'll be realistically changed - at least that's the goal. Let me know if it works. (read: keep reviewing) ;o)

Thanks for reading guys, I love you, and **review**!


	7. No Way to Fix This

**Chapter 7 – No Way to Fix This**

Draco stumbled slightly as he exited the fireplace into a dim sitting room, distracted with possible scenarios involving Pansy and increasingly awful situations. Pansy was not given to dramatics or attention-seeking, unlike Draco; if she was worried enough to send him a letter, something very serious was wrong.

He glanced down at his robes, belatedly realizing he was still in his pyjamas. Luckily the room was empty and dark as a tomb. This Floo connection was a secret to all but a few close associates of the Parkinsons (prominent Death Eater families didn't have "family friends"), and provided a discreet form of transportation that was all but impossible in their foyer fireplace. He padded over the soft carpet to a cloakroom and grabbed out a plain black cloak that likely belonged to Thaddeus Parkinson. Opening the door a sliver, he peered into the hall to make sure it was clear before darting out and silently making his way to Pansy's room.

She was waiting for him, sitting on her canopied bed facing away the door, small frame tense. He locked the door quietly behind him and knelt at her feet, taking her clenched white fists in his hands. She looked up at him unseeingly, her face pale and hard but her eyes holes in the mask, their brown dull and shallow with despair. She looked cornered and extremely breakable.

She looked as if she had given up.

Draco felt a tightening in his chest, almost not wanting to know what had happened to turn his tough, sassy best friend into a fragile shell. He awkwardly pried her clamped fingers apart, lending his warmth to her frigid hands.

"Pansy? He asked hesitantly. "What...what happened?"

Her eyes flickered and he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach when he saw the flash of utter devastation that was gone in an instant, losing focus into the other, relatively blank expression of resignation. She didn't speak for a moment, then a deep shudder racked her body from her shoulders down through to her legs. She dropped her head, her straight brown hair falling in a limp curtain that hid her face.

"My father is offering me to the Dark Lord as a virgin sacrifice," she said in a rush of breathy words.

Draco gasped and stood up dizzily, thunderstruck.

"Wha...but I don't...how can..._what_?" He staggered a couple of uncertain steps and fell on the bed next to her. "I thought virgin sacrifices were a centuries-old African myth...and you're not even—I mean—"

She laughed bitterly, her voice like shattering glass. "I'm not a virgin, no. Apparently since it wasn't a voluntary loss of innocence, I'm still _pure_." She spat the last word with venom.

Thick silence choked the air for a few moments. Then Pansy spoke again. "The virgin sacrifice myth has been a joke practically forever, a Muggle stereotype of isolated native jungle tribes. Almost no one knows that there's powerful Earth Magic in the voluntary giving of a virgin's...l-life." Her ever steady voice wavered a bit on the last word, and through the suffocating layers of shock, anger and pain came a frisson of pride in her composure. Any other girl would have been in hysterics by now.

"What exactly does it do?" he asked her gently.

"That's all I was able to get from my father. He's being awfully tight with information. I imagine it's to strengthen the Dark Lord somehow." Her voice was a monotone now, weary and grey.

"Couldn't you—voluntarily lose your innocence?" he suggested desperately.

She shrank into herself, making her already small frame look almost childlike, "No," she choked out. "I can't stand the idea of a man touching me again. I'd really rather die." Her voice trembled, the trauma she usually buried deep seeping out and staining the atmosphere darkly, and Draco took a sharp breath, wishing...wishing so many impossible things.

"Not even me?" he asked in close to a whisper, knowing her answer before she parted her lips.

"Not even you, Draco." Her voice was a pale ghost of a thing.

Draco felt a burning anger burst into flame inside him. "How can your father just offer you up like that?" he ground out. "I'd like to kill him with my bare hands, the fucking _coward_. Giving his own _daughter_ up to be disposed of by evil incarnate..." he shook with fury, blood boiling.

"Wouldn't your father do the same, if it helped him gain rank in the Inner Circle?"

Draco was silent. She knew the answer to that question as well as he did. "So what now?" he asked finally. "Any ideas? Just tell me, I'll do anything." He turned to her and looked in her eyes, eyes charcoal with sincerity.

She looked back at him without expression for a split second before her veneer cracked and her face caved in on itself. "I know, Draco," she said with aching sorrow.

He grabbed her and hugged her tightly, so tight it hurt. They had never talked about their friendship; never talked about anything remotely personal. Which was not to say they weren't privy to that side of each other. It was just something that needed no articulation. Now though, Draco spoke as his chest constricted painfully. "You know that you're the sister I never had, Pans," he said in a low voice. "I know you like to take care of everything yourself, but please. Please let me help you with this."

The whisper came after a minute or two of silence, just a breath on the air. "It doesn't matter now. There isn't any way to fix this."

He loosened his grip slightly, realizing he must have been hurting her, though she said nothing. They sat in silent despair, heads leaning together, not speaking or crying.

Waiting.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Draco stayed with Pansy throughout the afternoon and evening, keeping her company and sometimes offering awkward words of comfort. She barely spoke, answering only in monosyllabic answers, and he eventually gave up trying to draw her into conversation.

When the sky was painted in crimson and purple with the waning day, Draco stirred, stretching his stiff limbs.

"Pans?" he said, a smooth steel undercurrent in his calm voice.

She lifted her head and he saw something like a smile in her tired eyes. "I know that tone of voice. You're going to tell me something _for my own good_ that I probably don't want to hear," she said ironically.

He made a self-conscious motion with his shoulders and dropped his eyes. "Well, I had an idea." He gazed at her through his pale lashes. Lashes she always teased him about, longer than a boy had any right to have, longer and thicker than hers, certainly. "It's ridiculous, but at this point—"

She sighed dramatically and gave in to the smile fighting to get out, raising her eyebrows mockingly. "I know you're going to say it anyway, you prat. Spit it out."

He looked at her with a mix of trepidation and embarrassment. "Right. Just, please, hear me out." At her concise, impatient nod, he sighed. "Why don't we ask Dumbledore to help us?"

A crackling anger spiked in her eyes. "Us? _Us_. Are you mental? Firstly, _I'm_ being chucked on a silver platter to the effing Dark Lord. Not you." Draco jerked. She took no notice. "Secondly, ...are you _mental_?" Her mouth opened and closed like a factory door. She shook her head in disbelieving disgust at her best friend.

Her only friend. She bit her lip at the recollection of her cruel rejection of his help. _Some help_, she thought derisively. Still, an uncomfortable guilt gnawed at her gizzard.

He sat in stiff-shouldered silence, assuming a subconsciously defensive pose. "Well, I suppose you're right. I'll just remove my lunatic tendencies from your presence, shall I?" His voice was a flat monotone. He stood and moved to the door, faint pink smudges on the sides of his cheeks.

Pansy huffed in regret and frustration. "Oh come on Draco, don't be that way. Sit. I'm under a fair amount of stress here, you know." He came back, and they sat for a moment, the silence thick with mutual apology.

He stirred. "Look, I know...I'm not keen on telling old Grandfather Twinkle either, but what choice do we have? Whatever Gryffindoric folly he comes up with, it has to be better than...the alternative."

She glared at him. "Oh, and he'll just believe us, will he? The only heirs of two prominent suspected Death Eaters? _I_ wouldn't trust us, and besides, he hates you." This wasn't gospel; Dumbledore had never shown any evidence of hatred per say, but there was a decided lack of warmth in his few unavoidable encounters with Draco, blatant disapproval for one with such a benevolent nature.

"I know that, and he knows I know. He's a sanctimonious bastard, but he's...brilliant. He knows we would never go to him except in dire, crazy circumstances." She looked anxiously back at him, forehead crinkly with indecision. "He'll help us Pans. Not for us, but for his own ego. And because indirectly, he'd be helping Potter." He grimaced around the name.

She closed her eyes a minute, fingers pressing her temples with bruising pressure, then looked up at him. "My father has made all exits impermeable to me. I can't leave," she said flatly.

Draco let out a whooshing breath, surprised that he had been holding it in. he grinned fleetingly and hugged her roughly, mussing her fine hair. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He drew back a bit. "I promise, little sis," he murmured, sounding impossibly young. She gave him a sharp smile.

He turned right before he reached the door. "I'll be back soon. Get some sleep, I've a feeling you'll be needing it."

**AN:** Hey guys. I toyed with continuing on to the next part, as I know what's going to happen, but it's a good stopping point, and this way the wait won't be as long. Let me know what you think of the new developments. Was it too boring a chapter? Did I use any clichés? "Mankind's greatest fear is being unoriginal." I heard that somewhere, I don't remember exactly. Interesting though, isn't it? We always want to be new, fresh, different. Rebellious.

Ok, enough philosophy for today. Feedback, now :o).

Oh and by the way—I wrote the first Draco/Hermione chapter a few days ago. It literally flowed out in a single burst of inspiration. All of my other chapters have been written over a few days, with a lot of revising. They sure have great chemistry.

**SlytherinRoyalty:** I'm bowled over by your praise. Thanks so much. Your reviews are always specific and detailed, which is good because it makes it that much more constructive, and I can improve for the next chapter. I'm very sorry to hear about your dog :o(.

Draco's back! Is he in character, do you think? I never know exactly how to write his dialogue. Hermione, I can handle—partly because I'm a little like her. Oh and the screaming and breaking things, I don't do that when I'm angry either, I also tend to shake (and cry) but I also have never lost someone that close to me and I wanted to show how deeply being orphaned affected her.

The thing about Luna—I think what makes a strong story is the subtleties of relationships between people, and not only love relationships. Friendship reveal a lot about people, for example Drac and Pansy's interaction in this chapter.

Thanks for the chocolate. :o)

**damned for eternity:** I do try :oP. Hope this next instalment satisfies.


	8. Brooding Solitary

**Chapter 8 – Brooding Solitary**

..._in seclusion, she had secluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that, her mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and must and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker..._

_-Charles Dickens, Great Expectations_

_Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave  
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;  
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.  
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned._

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay_

* * *

Hermione woke in the blue light of early evening, disoriented. Sitting up, she felt her head throb, mercifully milder than the night before. She reached and clicked on the bedside lamp, and the golden pool of light filled the room, illuminating a rolled up parchment lying on the nightstand. She blinked at it, picking it up with slow fingers and breaking the wax seal, unrolling it to see spidery writing covering the yellowed page.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Arthur contacted me about your whereabouts when you left the Burrow. The Weasleys were quite concerned about your welfare. _

_When we found you, however, we realized that home is probably the best place for you to be right now, in order for you to grieve properly and without the pressure of others' presence. I know from experience that bereavement is a solitary trial, and often even the most well-meaning friends serve only to drain our scant emotional energy. _

_We are giving you some space—but do not think we have abandoned you. Aurors are posted at your house around the clock, not only to protect you but also to help with whatever you need, and the Order is only an owl away if you need us for anything at all._

_I understand that you were too distraught to process what Arthur tried to tell you about the investigation. Quite understandable, of course. I appreciate your penchant for the facts, however, and I know you would not thank me for sugar-coating them._

_Magical means of investigation revealed traces of two _Avada Kedavra_ spells, along with numerous _Crucios_, from a total of three wands. It is possible that more Death Eaters were present; that is unlikely, however, as Professor Snape tells me that You-Know-Who's squads are generally formed of three members. _

_The Aurors' Muggle contact at Scotland Yard, I believe it's called, was able to gather some evidence, most of which is useless to us, but there were some hairs and fibres which are being analyzed at the Ministry. I am confident they will yield some concrete results as to who was at your home that night._

_I hope you are doing as well as can be expected. Know that many send their condolences and deepest regards. I am terribly sorry for your loss._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster, Hogwarts_

Hermione sat in the golden glow of the lamp, parchment clutched between her fingers, unmoving. Relief flooded through her at the reprieve from company; God knew she didn't feel like seeing anyone ever again. Staring at the Headmaster's ancient handwriting, she realized with a sudden jolt that there was another letter left her that she had never opened. She shivered, grabbed the yellow blanket from the bed, and walked downstairs cocooned tightly in its soft folds.

The drawing room had been tidied after Hermione's rampage the night before. Her school satchel lay in a corner by the door. She knelt before it and undid the buckles with shaking fingers. The small folded note lay in the bottom of the bag, and she scrabbled around for a minute before her fingers touched it. Drawing out her arm, she stared at the square of paper clenched in her fist.

She suddenly had no desire to read the contents of the note.

She took a sobbing breath and resolutely unfolded it, seeing a sloppy version of her mother's usually pristine hand covering the blue-lined page.

_Hermione darling,_

_My daughter. I don't know what to say. I know I probably will never see you again. Oh, Hermione, love. There are masked Dark wizards in the house, dangerous men in black robes. These must be the Death Eaters you hinted at last summer after Harry's godfather was killed. They did some sort of horrid Unforgivable on me, but I managed to get away somehow, and crawl up the stairs, although I think it took me hours. Right now I can hear your father screaming downstairs...dear God in heaven. _

_Hermione, I want you to know that your father and I are very proud of who you have become. You're an amazing young woman, a brilliant witch. And now I need to tell you something._

_You aren't a Muggleborn, Hermione. I ran away from Magical society when I was sixteen, after a horrible experience at the hands of a wizard, which I won't go into now. Suffice it to say that the aftermath convinced me that I wanted nothing to do with the Magical world. Perhaps that was too hasty. I don't know. But as the years passed and I became more of a Muggle I was less and less inclined to go back. I fell in love, and then I had you, and fell in love again._

_And then you got your Hogwarts letter, and I resigned myself to being drawn into that world again, to a lesser degree. But I don't regret leaving, and I want you to know that you shouldn't feel pressured to stay either. Especially after this. I mean, they must be targeting you, to come here like this! There is nothing wrong with living as a Muggle. It's an honourable way to live..._

_Oh Hermione they're coming. I love you so much my darling. Look in the attic for more I haven't told you. Oh God, they've killed him. They've killed him. Hermione I love you take care of yourself don't ever be ashamed we loved you so much_

_Mum_

Hermione fell backwards on the hard floor, struggling to breathe. She gasped, trying to draw air into her lungs through the lump that seemed to be blocking her windpipe. So affected was she by seeing her mother's panicked writing scurrying over the page, that the content of the letter barely registered.

_Come back_, her mind screamed. _Come back..._ Tears burned her eyes and dripped down her temples into her hair. She scrubbed at the wetness, feeling the damp curls there and feeling a sudden overpowering rage. She yanked at her hair, feeling it's huge mass between her fingers, hair like her mother's and she hated it hated it hated it...

She jumped up and ran to the kitchen, opening drawers with sharp violent pulls, until she came to the one she sought. She pulled out the kitchen scissors and took brisk steps to the bathroom, flicking on the light. Her face was puffy in the mirror, hair a huge brown cloud around her head and shoulders, making her shudder. If she squinted and turned her head just so, it was her mum staring back at her in the yellow light, and that caused a sharp pain to stab through her chest, almost bringing Hermione to her knees. She sobbed once and bent over, whipping her hair violently down to the tiles. Taking her hair in her left hand, she cut across it with the scissors in measured long snips, feeling the weight fall away from her throbbing head.

She flipped her hair up and rose, looking at her new reflection. The girl stared expressionlessly back at her, short shaggy layers of brown hair framing her pale face, her father's amber brown eyes, his high cheekbones clearly visible. She had her mother's small mouth and high forehead. Hair too short to form her usual loose curls, it just hung in thick waves. Her parents' features blended together in equal measure, and the pain was still great, but for the moment it was manageable.

The Hermione Granger in the glass was a familiar stranger, and fittingly, she no longer looked like the young innocent she had been. Nor did she want to.

She almost walked out before she realized there was a fuzzy pile of hair on the tile floor. She knelt and gathered it up, putting it in a plastic bag and stuffing that away in the back of a cupboard. Satisfied and empty, she went back to bed. _So tired..._

* * *

Time flowed by Hermione, and she lost one more piece of herself with every passing day.

She went to bed before the sun went down, stayed under the blankets long after the sunlight had passed over her window. Nothing seemed worth getting up for. She lost track of when she had last bathed, stayed in her pyjamas all day and drank bottomless cups of tea, ignoring the rumblings of her neglected stomach. She spent endless hours staring out the window at the passing cars and the neighbourhood children, who spent every daylight hour they could scrape running around in each other's yards and scampering around on the street.

It seemed like eternities ago that she herself had been one of those children, another life she had spent in another world, frolicking in the sunlight. Even before she had gotten her Hogwarts letter, she had started to drift from her schoolmates, throwing herself into her books to armour herself against the slight distance other kids always kept from her.

Once she had found out she was a witch, she had covered her insecurities with furious studying and endless spouting of facts. All that devotion to "books and cleverness," as she had said to Harry in first year, had covered her desperate fear that even this new world, which she supposedly belonged in by virtue of her very essence, would reject her; and where would she be then? But it had accepted her, in most respects. There was always the faint stigma of being Muggle-born, often blatant but usually just the surprise at her talent when wizards found out she was of Muggle parentage, the veiled condescension or pity in their eyes, the shadow in their voices. Yet despite all that, she had made the Wizarding world her home.

Now she no longer felt a part of the world of her childhood; the Muggle world seemed to lack the vividness of reality; she saw only busy people scurrying around in small pursuits, oblivious to the war that was being fought on their behalf, the lives being lost. She had been through so much in the last six years, being proofed in the fires of challenges and sorrows. Except that this last blaze seemed to have immolated her essence, burned away who she was.

* * *

The shrill doorbell assaulted her ears. She opened the door to admit Albert Humgee, the Grangers' solicitor since Hermione's enrolment at Hogwarts. A squib well-versed in both Muggle and Magical law, he was shy but brilliant, and served their needs very well. The thick white envelope he carried tucked under on arm made Hermione's stomach roll unpleasantly.

Papers spread before her on the coffee table, she felt the words of ownership and bequest blur into a dull headache. Humgee explained diffidently that as she hadn't yet reached her majority, unless Hermione acquired a legal guardian within thirty days the Muggle portion of the Granger assets would be liquidated and appropriated by the state.

"What? ...they can't do that," protested Hermione.

"They can, and will. You have no living relatives, Miss Granger. You are not entitled to hold property under the law until your eighteenth birthday."

"That's in under three months! Can't they give me a...a deferral or something?" she asked helplessly.

"I am afraid the law is very rigid in this matter," Humgee replied apologetically. "In the past people have clogged the court with these cases for months and even years in order to sidestep the law."

She sighed. "Well then I suppose Professor Dumbledore, or the Weasleys..."

"Actually," he said hesitantly, "it must be someone in the Muggle world, with the proper records and documents."

Hermione nodded, feeling foolish. "Of course."

A flurry of owls ensued, culminating in the arrival of a cat-toting Mrs. Arabella Figg, who accompanied Hermione and Humgee to the London civil court.

Hermione was numb as she watched Mrs. Figg pen her flowery signature in the space labelled 'parent/legal guardian'. Her own name was rather unsteady on the smooth creamy paper.

* * *

Harry came to see her, flying over from the Burrow on his retrieved broom. He did not bring Ron with him, nor did he mention him during his visit. Hermione welcomed him with reluctant silence. He was shocked at her gaunt, wild appearance.

"Dumbledore said to give you space, Hermione, and we did, but you're destroying yourself," he said sharply. She looked at him sullenly and shrugged. He sighed deeply and dragged her into the bathroom, blocking the door from outside until she had taken a shower. When she emerged an hour later, shiny and pale, his eyes widened in shock behind his glasses. He reached out a hand and fingered her shorn head. The question in his eyes was too obvious to ignore. A shadow of a breath sighed past her lips.

"I'm not the same Hermione I used to be. I don't want to see her every time I look in the mirror."

She looked earnestly at him, thinking that Harry, out of anyone, might understand, who had been thrust into so many changes, and was in some ways still reeling from a few of them. And she saw in his face that he did; but the sadness in his bright green eyes made a sharp pain stab in the vicinity of her heart, which had been blissfully quiet in the last few weeks.

She broke eye contact with a feeling of panic rising in her. He pulled her close against his side then, guiding her downstairs without a word, and she had a strange feeling that he knew exactly who she was at that moment.

They sat together on the sofa, leaning their shoulders together in gentle camaraderie. He talked in low whispers about his own parents and Sirius, and she saw as from a far distance how alone he must have felt last year.

She certainly couldn't have borne the presence of anyone but Harry right now; their pity, which they didn't even bother to mask, and their stilted conversation when all she needed was blessed silence. It had been insufferable staying at the Weasleys', with their guilty looks at her when they thought she couldn't see, their awkward attempts at sympathy. Only Mrs. Weasley was slightly bearable, having lost her entire family during the first Rise to Power; but her incessant clucking reminded her too sharply of her own mother, until Hermione felt she might break if she didn't escape her kind eyes.

But Harry...Harry was alone in the world, just as she was, well provided for and surrounded by well-meaning friends, yet without any real family. Just the thought of the coming years, and having to lead life without the guiding hands of her mother and father, made her hastily slam a lid on her contemplations of the future altogether.

So when he held her tightly, sometimes even sniffling a bit, she wasn't sure who it was comforting whom, and that was fine with her. She realized now that Harry had needed much more in the past year than she and Ron had known how to give him. She also knew, somehow, that he forgave them for that.

Harry really was wise beyond his years; and though she didn't speak to him of it, she was grateful for his straightforward company.

* * *

A burst of flame appeared in the front hall, accompanied by the brief rushing sound of fire devouring oxygen. Hermione got up from her chair at the breakfast table and walked indifferently to the door. Albus Dumbledore stood in front of her, phoenix on his shoulder, a sad smile in his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

"Good morning, Hermione." He took in her dishevelled (though mercifully clean after Harry's visit yesterday) appearance, her drastically shortened hair, and the purple shadows around her eyes. Her cheekbones stood out sharply in her gaunt face. He frowned a bit. "You must eat, child. Starving yourself won't bring back your parents."

Hermione winced at his blunt words, but didn't otherwise respond. The Headmaster sighed. He took her arm and led her paternally into the drawing room, settling her on the sofa and taking the armchair at her elbow.

"I realize you are grieving, Hermione, and believe me, I am in no way patronizing you, for I myself have experienced debilitating losses; but you must pull yourself together, child. You may not want to go on, but you will regardless, for your time has not yet come. You are alive, and you must accept that."

He regarded her appraisingly over steepled fingers. She sat sullen, her profile turned towards him, silent and unresponsive. He tried again.

"It has been a month since you returned home. In that time you have cut yourself off from any source of succour or distraction from your grief. Human beings are not designed to live in solitude, Hermione—especially in times of great hardship. There is nothing wrong with taking help that is offered sincerely."

Hermione glowered at this, finally showing a hint of the old fire. "There is nothing that can distract or comfort me. Being around people _doesn't_ help, it makes me feel worse. And just because someone is sincere doesn't mean they have a clue about what to say to a bereaved person. Hell, _I_ don't even know, and I'm the sole bereaved party." She sagged, the spark going out, turning to ash and it disintegrating as well. "I just want to be left alone to wallow for a bit."

He frowned at this and spoke sharply, "Do not squander the gift you have been given. If you had come home even an hour earlier, you would not be sitting here now. Instead of wallowing, pursue the degenerates who perpetrated this atrocity, the ones who ripped away your life. In fact, that's one of the reasons I came today. The results have come back from the Ministry labs." He took out a rolled parchment from the folds of his star-spangled robe and pressed it into Hermione's hands. "It seems they have found some clues to go on. I thought you might like to take a look."

Hermione felt her curiosity sputter, whine and roar to life. Except this time her drive to know went beyond inquisitiveness; she was out for blood now. _The reprobates who did this. They will pay, Goddamnit. _She imagined with detached malice how she would snap their necks like so many useless wands, hurl curses until pieces of them were scattered to the four corners of the earth. Her fist clenched around the roll of parchment, crushing it between her fingers without conscious thought, as she stared into the middle distance.

Dumbledore rose as she flattened the parchment and began to read, satisfied that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. He silently let himself out into the hall, and disappeared in a burst of Fawkes' flames.

Hermione sat with glazed eyes, oblivious of his departure.

She was planning.

* * *

**_Next time:_** Draco's meeting with Dumbledore, and Dumbledore's rather ingenious plan. Probably will also include a by-the-skin-of-their-teeth escape from Death Eaters. Who the hell came up with that idiotic expression, by the way? **_Join us for the next episode, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel! _**Wow, major flashback.

**AN:** Hey everyone! Hope you liked the new chapter. I somehow had two very VERY rabid plot bunnies attack me over the last few days. Actually they were more like squirrels—the insane factor was rather high. I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew. I just couldn't resist when the idea came to me—Sirius Black, a ghost, back at Hogwarts! Actually "Hogwarts Ghosts" was supposed to be a one-shot, but I accidentally left that little fact out, and now I'm afraid people will shoot me if I don't write another chapter! More like, I don't like disappointing people, especially when they're being so complimentary! blush But I think I can continue it. (Picture this: Snape discovers Sirius... ransacking his bedroom?! Muaha.)

My other fic's also humour, silliness and fun with Draco and Hermione, with a twist. Houses rearranged by Alphabetical order, anyone? Personally, I'm a K, so I would be in House Duo. G-M... hint hint... well, check it out if you want.

This is still my "serious" fic though, so don't worry.

Thanks for reading, and _Please Review_ – think of it this way, you've already spent the time reading it, so take a fraction of that to drop a few words (I have no problem with constructive critics!). Pretty please dipped in chocolate? ;) _Mmmm, chocolate... Draco..._

**SlytherinRoyalty:** Heather! Hey Slyth! (can I call you that?) Thanks for your once again very cool and long review. Thanks for your compliment about the pureblood thing, I wanted to get away from the fanfic clichés while staying true to the characters. Glad you liked the Grandfather Twinkle thing. It's an overused cliché, but I couldn't resist.

Yeah, you're right, Draco's character does have a lot of room for interpretation. But that's what makes a DMHG fic so much more fun to write than, say, a Ron/Hermione. Too predictable. I mean we know they'll stop fighting eventually, have mad sex, get married and have another "herd" of Weasleys (lol), sappiness and fluff all the way. But come on, that's too much like real life! ;)

Good to know you like Pansy so far. I've got big plans for her, so keep an eye out. I think it's a shame when people make her a flat character, as there are so few stong female characters in HP-Land (Hermione, sort of Ginny, and...McGonagall?). Harry Potter is dominated by intensely primadonna-ish male characters. They just take over! Not that I'm complaining. Most are quite delicious. Anyway...

The link you sent me didn't show up, thought I'd let you know. And I emailed you about something, so get back to me on that when you can, k? Thanks as always for taking the time and honest effort to review properly. Also for your wonderful reviews of my two new stories.

I know you're a Slytherin, but I'm sending you a BIG HUG anyway, so there! I won't tell anyone, I promise.

**Aeriel Ravenna:** Thanks! Pansy is definitely a three-dimensional character in this one, and some interesting stuff's going to happen with her, so stick around. The Crucio thing... I always want to know the details, and as J.K didn't give us all of the details about the Cruciatus, I was sort of... exploring the possibilities.


	9. In Which We Visit Grandfather Twinkle

hey guys! sorry for the long wait, I've never written anything this long before. 12 pages in word, 10 pt font! I hope I can keep it up :) I have the tendency to write really concisely, to the point that my English teachers in high school would be like, this would be an A paper, you just need to elaborate more on your brilliant ideas (translation: you need to learn how to BS!). Yeah, sad. So I have to really work at writing anything long, especially since I have this horrible wasting disease called perfectionism. :) Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 9 – In which we visit Grandfather Twinkle**

_Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe._

_-Anne Bronte_

Draco growled in frustration, dropping down on the cold stone bench. Across from him the disgustingly frilly windows of Madame Puddifoot's, lit by dancing pink fairy lights in the night, mocked his aggravation.

He should have known that during the summer Hogwarts would be locked and empty, its hundreds of windows dark, but somehow in his mind he had seen it as perpetually occupied with its motley staff, two-dimensional characters who had no lives apart from their varied personas as Professor this or that, with their insipid Headmaster clucking over his brood like an ancient mother hen. Hogwarts had a continuity about it, an atmosphere of changelessness, and so it was incongruous for Draco's mind to imagine it as being _closed_.

And yet it was, of course, and Dumbledore was nowhere to be found, damn him.

Draco had returned home and changed out if his pyjamas, stuffing a few emergency galleons in his pocket, and with his broomstick over his shoulder had walked quietly downstairs to the fireplace. He had wondered in passing at the absolute silence during a time when usually elves would be bustling about fixing and serving supper, for the informal dining room was dark and still, and not a creature was visible. Still, he didn't give it much thought, for he was in a rush to get to Dumbledore, not daring to trust that Pansy would be safe by herself even overnight.

And now, here he was, thwarted and at a loss.

He decided that since everything looks better on a full stomach than an empty one, and he had neglected dinner in his frantic search, that he would go to the Three Broomsticks, eat a hearty meal, and ponder his next move.

He anxiously thought of Pansy, and swallowed, sickened anew at how callously her father was planning to use her. Even animals had a basic protective instinct when it came to their offspring, and for many that instinct was stronger even than the instinct for life, for survival. Yet Thaddeus Parkinson was selling his child for the price of his own continued existence, and in this he was lower than any other form of life. Draco narrowed his eyes and thought how satisfying it would be to feel the fop's slender neck snap beneath his fingers.

He shook off these murderous thoughts as he reached the door of the cheerful establishment. Walking in, he blinked at the sudden brightness and staked out a lonely table to await Madame Rosmerta. Before long, a familiar figure approached the table, but it was not the buxom proprietress by a long shot. Draco stared quite comically at his headmaster, for once in his smart-aleck life at a loss for words.

Albus Dumbledore smiled and inclined his head, silently asking permission to sit. Draco waved him into the other chair.

"You are early, Mr. Malfoy. The interviews do not begin until tomorrow morning. But I suppose you already know that."

Draco stared, utterly perplexed. "Interviews?" he echoed stupidly.

"For next year's Headship, of course. You are the first candidate to arrive."

"But… I'm not—that is…"

"You did not receive your owl? Curious. I did address it to your family, at the mansion."

Draco blinked. Then he scowled. "Oh, _shit_." Dumbledore raised a woolly white eyebrow. Draco flushed slightly. "So you're telling me, that my parents know about my… candidacy, and that I'm expected here." A nod. "And that means, that he's looking for me, and has most likely noticed I'm not home, and soon enough, he'll figure out why…" he trailed off, his voice dropping to almost a whisper at the end. He no longer seemed to register Dumbledore's presence, but was glaring intensely at a knot in the surface of the wooden table, mouthing profanities.

"Mr. Malfoy." Draco's head jerked up, a wary gaze crossing his features for a moment before he forced it away. "If you were unaware of your interview, then what is your business in Hogsmeade… if you don't mind me asking?" Draco was torn between gratitude towards the man for overlooking his previous unguarded words, and irritation at his deliberate obtuseness—although neither emotion showed on his face. He had no doubt that Dumbledore already knew it was he Draco had come to see; even a Malfoy had to admit to that uncannily sharp intellect of his.

But he bit the bullet with a slight grimace. Greater things were at stake here than his ego.

"Actually, Professor, I was hoping I could speak with you—in private," he said firmly, trying to hide his nervousness. It occurred to him that he sat directly across from his father's Master's mortal enemy, and that Lucius would most likely—definitely—kill Draco if he knew what he was about to attempt.

Dumbledore gave Draco an appraising look, not mistrustful but not open by any stretch of the imagination. "Very well. Follow me."

He followed the ancient wizard through the dining area to the back of the inn, where they entered a narrow hallway with three doors along it. Dumbledore stopped and rapped at the second one, calling out to the room's occupant, "It's me."

The door was pulled inward to reveal a very casual looking Minerva McGonagall, dressed in plain green robes with tartan edging. "Albus—" Her eyes widened at the sight of their unexpected guest, and she shot her employer a questioning look. Dumbledore simply tilted his head and sent her some silent communication that Draco didn't catch. She nodded and opened the door fully to let them in.

The room was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with a knotty table and squishy worn armchairs around it, candles burning in the air. Some scattered scrolls of parchment lay on the tabletop, and a quill stood in an open bottle of ink.

Wrinkling his nose at the decor, he turned his attention to the other occupants of the room. "I wanted to speak to you _alone_," he stressed, meeting the rheumy blue gaze. An affronted snort came from the Scotswoman, but Dumbledore held up his hand.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. I trust that this matter is of some importance," he responded with a penetrating glance. Draco bristled at the hidden implications of that sentence. They would never make such insinuations to Potter, he knew. _Whenever that wanker wants to whine about something, people flock around him and take his every word for gospel._ Now here was this vaunted idiot wasting precious time.

His voice was thus slightly more snappish than he had intended when he said, "It's a matter of _life_ and _death_."

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at his tone. "There's no need to be overly dramatic, Malfoy. It tends to become tiresome after a while."

Draco felt a very unpleasant sensation at that point, one which was totally unfamiliar to him. If he had grown up in a Muggle household, he might have recognized his predicament as that of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. As it was, he was simply enraged.

"What is _wrong_ with you people! She's going to _die_, you self-righteous morons! He's going to serve her up to the _Dark_ _Lord_ for _dinner_, and all you can do is stand there spouting sanctimonious _bullshit_!" Draco's voice cracked on the last word, and he felt closer to tears than he had since Pansy had told him, but he ruthlessly blanked his face with bone-bred Malfoy skill. He took deep heaving breaths, his fists clenched at his sides, entire body shaking in rage, and glared at his professors, daring them to say something about his uncharacteristic outburst.

They stared back at him in shock, wide-eyed and silent. Never had they seen Draco display such strong emotion. Dumbledore dismissed McGonagall with gentle words and she left, leaving a trail of almost visible curiosity in her wake.

As the door closed after her, Draco sneered and said, "Are you sure Granger's not _her_ daughter? Because I swear, sometimes…" The two males' eyes met and they both burst out laughing simultaneously, breaking the tension with an audible snap. The moment passed quickly, but the barest traces of their smiles remained, leaving them staring at one another in pleased surprise.

"I absolutely agree, Mr. Malfoy." And there it was, returned in full force… the dreaded twinkle. Draco found that he didn't mind it too much right then; in fact, the familiarity of it was almost comforting. "Now then, I apologize for not realizing the severity of your situation." He was suddenly all serious business. "Why don't you tell me what has happened."

Draco took a shaky breath. _This is it_, he thought, _the point of no return_—and plunged headlong into his tale.

Dumbledore was silent for the duration, although his blue eyes grew grieved when Draco related Pansy's dire straits. After Draco trailed off into silence, they both contemplated his words for a moment, Draco anxiously wanting to leave to find Pansy but needing to stay and get help, Dumbledore thinking over this conundrum.

"You say her mansion is warded against her departure." Draco nodded. "That means she cannot leave through either Muggle or Magical means in her current state of existence, as the wards would recognize her magical energy trying to flee."

Draco released an angry breath. "So what do you suggest, that we kill her, kidnap her and bring her back to life?" he bit sarcastically. He dropped his tousled head in his hands. "It's hopeless," he murmured through his fingers, defeated.

"No Draco, that's our solution. We must make it so the wards are unable to detect her magical signature." Draco stared at his Headmaster, horrified, who shook his head impatiently and continued, "Through Polyjuice Potion."

Draco blinked for a moment, then grinned with dawning realization. "That's _brilliant_! And the potion will last just long enough for us to escape."

"Yes, but due to the nature of the… operation, I'm afraid you must carry out this rescue unaccompanied… physically, that is."

Draco's mouth twisted in dry amusement. "Yeah, lair of the enemy, crawling with Death Eaters, and all that, I get it. I wasn't expecting anything else."

"Very astute on your part." Was that amusement Draco heard in the old man's voice? _Where's the world I fell asleep in last night? I don't know about this new landscape…_

They left the chamber then and walked down the dim staircase, not encountering a soul on their way to the Floo connection downstairs. Dumbledore took them to his office with a flourish and a toss. Something occurred to Draco.

"When will I have my Headship interview then? After this is over?" He bit his lip, immediately ashamed of his selfish question.

"Oh no," replied Dumbledore in an odd voice, "That will no longer be necessary, Mr. Malfoy." Draco said nothing, feeling the bitter sting of disappointment and then anger at himself for caring, especially at a time like this. _Lucius would finally have been proud…_ But he refused to travel further down _that_ path.

He settled into an armchair as Dumbledore walked back to the fireplace and threw a bit of powder in, sticking his head in the green flames and calling, "Severus."

Draco felt a sudden blind, choking panic. He stopped thinking rationally and grasped the Headmaster's upper arm, pulling him out of the fireplace with great force. The old wizard stumbled and fell back against Draco, who in turn ended up sandwiched between the Dumbledore and the armchair with his face mashed into the nubby red upholstery. He felt Dumbledore's weight shift off him and he got up rather shamefacedly, though still alarmed.

"I'm sorry Professor Dumbledore," he rushed at the other's rather pointed look, "but Snape… you don't know this, but Snape is a _Death Eater_!" He paused to gauge the effect of his shocking statement.

The other's face relaxed. "Ah. Is that all?" Draco sputtered incredulously. "You might be surprised at what I do know, Draco."

This use of his name jerked Draco as if he was a marionette on a string. He stared in confusion, and watched with mounting dread as Dumbledore once again reached for the Floo powder. _He doesn't believe me._

After a muffled conference with his Potions professor, Dumbledore re-emerged with a bright smile. "We are most fortunate that Severus has some of what we need, for the Polyjuice Potion requires three weeks to brew, as you undoubtedly know. He will be joining us shortly."

It was all over.

Draco fell into the chair in stunned silence, feeling horribly dull and lost. _All that effort, and I've only made things worse_. She had told him it wouldn't work out, hadn't she? He felt a corrosive guilt start to curdle in his stomach. He realized suddenly that he could hear someone calling his name from a distance. He raised lustreless grey eyes.

"…Draco, there's something you don't know about our dear Professor Snape." The boy blinked dumbly. "He is one of the most dedicated among those who are working against the Dark. He does reconnaissance for the Light Side."

Draco gave a short bark of bitter laughter. "He told you that. And you _believed_ him? You actually _trust_ him?" Suddenly he wasn't so sure he had come to the right person for help.

Dumbledore's voice vibrated with certainty. "With my very life, Draco."

Again with the first name. He realized that Dumbledore was extending a metaphorical olive branch, trying to tell Draco without words that he could trust in him. And Draco wanted to. But he couldn't escape the paralyzing knowledge of the gray mark on Snape's forearm that was the twin of his father's, a mark he had seen with his own eyes. _Now the barmy old codger wants me to believe he's a spy in the Dark Lord's bloody Inner Circle? What will he think of next?_

At that moment Snape billowed out of the fireplace, stoppered vial grasped in his narrow fingers. He stopped short at the sight of his godson, frozen in shock. He had obviously not been informed of the recipient's identity. Black eyes darted to the Headmaster, sharply questioning. Meanwhile, Draco sweated in his chair, his mind filled with Pansy and very close to shorting out.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Severus," Dumbledore said with affection. "Draco here is very grateful for your assistance, I'm sure?" He turned to said young man with an expectant look that said, _I know you can do this. Trust me._

"No, I'm not," Draco blurted suddenly. "I mean, it isn't me that needs the potion. There's been a-a misunderstanding," he said desperately, eyes darting around the room like those of a cornered animal. His voice shook. "If you'll excuse me, I really must be going… Father will be waiting—"

He was avoiding the two mens' gazes, or he would have seen the sudden understanding in Snape's eyes. The taciturn man took three swift strides to Draco's side and dropped a strong hand on his shoulder. The boy flinched.

"Draco." The blond hesitated, then raised frightened silver eyes to Snape's intent ones, pulse rapid. "You have nothing to fear from me," the man said quietly. "It is true, my loyalty lies with Dumbledore, who gave me a chance to redeem the darkness in my soul so many years ago. I did indeed join the Dark Lord when I was young, but I realized my mistake almost immediately. My first allegiance is to the Cause, and second only to that is your well-being. You can trust me, Draco."

Draco stared at his professor in consternation, mind reeling from the only personal statement he had ever heard from him, unable to reconcile this Knight for the Light in front of him with the man he had always known, both as his Potions teacher and as a close associate of the Malfoy scion, to be cold, cruel and—evil. Neither had the man ever uttered a warm word to Draco, despite their godson-godfather relationship. But it was also true that the man had an uncanny ability to manipulate conversations; it was always the person Snape spoke to that spilled his guts, while not a word about himself ever crossed the laconic professor's lips. Years of living under Lucius Malfoy's arm of steel had taught Draco to detect nuances of emotion in those who held a position of authority over him. He used that skill now and thoroughly searched Snape's face for evidence one way or the other, aware that the latter did the same thing to Draco.

After a few moments of this bizarre tableau, Draco frozen in a defensive posture on the plush armchair and Snape awkwardly crouched before him on one knee, burning gazes locked, Draco let out a small breath and relaxed into a more natural position. Snape's countenance filled with relief at the boy's body language, his senses honed sharp from years of espionage, knowing that Draco had found the elusive reassurance he'd sought.

"In my experience, stories that sound that ridiculous are usually true," said Draco casually—and that was that.

Snape reached for the forgotten vial of Polyjuice, which was resting safely in Dumbledore's hands. He pressed it into Draco's grasp, saying, "I don't know what you plan on doing with this, but I trust that you know how to use it safely."

Automatically Draco recited, "Drop in a piece of the intended object of transformation; lasts one hour; human subjects only." He swallowed and stared at the muddy liquid sloshing around in its vial, adding in a low voice, "It's for Pansy."

Snape looked perplexed for a moment, evidently out of the loop on this one, and then he scowled in sudden realization. "The sacrifice," he said in a guttural voice, closing his eyes just a moment too long for a normal blink. It wasn't a question. Draco nodded, unable to speak. "You had best leave immediately, then," Snape commanded brusquely, regaining a bit of his customary armour. Both stood. Draco, seeing Snape as if for the first time, realized that said armour wasn't as thick or impervious as it appeared to the casual observer; then again, few people cared to look too closely at Severus Snape.

Dumbledore stepped forward then, and Draco started as the tall shadow fell over him, having forgotten the old man's presence. The latter placed a wrinkled hand on Draco's shoulder. "Go now, and if an emergency arises, call for Fawkes. He will find you." The phoenix alighted gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder, resplendent at his peak of adulthood. Draco looked dubiously at the bird's overly-Gryffindoric plumage, but decided not to pass any comments. Within seconds he was throwing sand through his fingers, shouting "Rear, Parkinson Mansion" into the high green flames and jumping into the darkness.

In the office, two men stood contemplating a rather ordinary fire, cheerful orange flames shooting up heat and sparks. The middle-aged man turned to his ancient companion, seeing his own careworn expression mirrored in the other's face, and said after a long moment, "I'd always wondered if the boy had it in him."

The other merely smiled knowingly.

* * *

Draco fell out of the fireplace into the dark chamber at Pansy's house, braced for an attack. It was still and quiet, however, and everything seemed untouched since his last visit. He let out an unsteady breath of relief. Creeping out of the door, heart pounding, he traversed the dim upstairs hallways, until finally he was nearing Pansy's door. He felt the enormous relief of almost having gained his objective, when a voice called out of the shadows, "Who's there?" 

Draco froze in shock, heart in his throat. A black figure approached from just beyond Pansy's bedroom door. He would never be able to slip inside without meeting the person on his way. And it was certain that he would not be seen as a welcome guest. Dread washed over him and he stood paralysed, swearing creatively in his mind. The figure's footsteps were audible now, feet brushing against the polished marble floor. Despair assailing him, he stood bitterly cursing Voldemort, the Death Eaters, Thaddeus Parkinson, Lucius, Snape, Dumbledore…

Suddenly he noticed something that hadn't been evident when his discoverer was farther away. The person was of extremely short stature, had a disproportionately large head and huge, floppy ears…

"A house elf," muttered Draco, unclenching a bit. Elves were loyal to their masters above even their lives, making this tricky, but they also weren't known for their intelligence. Thus all Draco had to do was find a reasonable explanation as to why he was stealing through the mansion like a thief, at eleven o'clock at night.

Simple.

_Okay, brain, anytime now…_ He thought frantically, but nothing was coming, and as he grew more agitated, his mind became even less coherent, panic wiping it clean.

Before long the house-elf stopped in front of him, having summoned a torch from out of thin air at some point during Draco's mild panic attack. The elf gasped. "Master Draco!"

_Merlin's balls_. It just had to be one that knew him on sight, didn't it? He put on his haughty face and adopted his father's habitual manner when addressing an inferior being (essentially, any time he wasn't in the Dark Lord's presence). Sweat beaded on his cold forehead, and he took a moment to steady his voice before responding aloofly, "Yes?"

The elf blinked (It had been a poor attempt). "What Master Draco do wandering in dark at middle of night?" she asked in a clear, high squeak.

"Erm… I…" Draco stammered, addled at the elf's disconcerting bluntness.

"Miss Pansy be _very _crossif they catches you! She waits _all_ afternoon, scared, and you no show up! Come with Pooky," and with that she grabbed his arm and dragged him down the hallway, fairly throwing him through the doorway of Pansy's room.

Draco stumbled in to find his best friend standing at her picture window, staring through the shears at her reflection on the black glass. He shut the door behind him, obliviously shutting it in the indignant little elf's face, and strode over to her. "Pansy?" he called out, his step light, feeling as if for once, everything was about to come right. He was smiling as he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.

He recoiled in horror.

Marring Pansy's perfect complexion, grotesquely large on the apple of her left cheek, was the grey mark of Voldemort, three times its regular size, the skin still pink around the edges from its recent injury. There was no light in her eyes. For the first time in over ten years, tears touched Draco's cheeks, and he pulled her roughly toward him, clasped her to his heart, and released a single anguished sob. Pansy didn't respond, limp as a rag doll in his arms. Branded. The word burned in his mind and he blurted out in thoughtless rage, "Who was it? Who di—" he stopped, wanting to kick himself for asking her to relive it.

But she responded in an eerily blank voice, "It was Father." Draco sucked in his breath in a hiss and saw the world turn red inside his head. She squirmed between his arms and he realized he had been squeezing her too tight, cutting off her air. He loosened his grip guiltily, then stepped back a bit.

Draco fought the sudden wretched certainty that they had lost already, the creeping dread that washed over him. "Pansy, I'm getting you out of here," he said desperately. "Dumbledore helped me. I have a way for you to escape without tripping the alarms!"

She turned her head away and stared at the floor. "There is no way. I'll die as soon as I attempt anything."

He pushed away the paralyzing despair that was welling up inside him and reached into his pocket. At that moment the house-elf appeared at his elbow, jabbering frantically. Ignoring her, Draco uncorked the vial and dropped a single black hair into it. The murky potion fizzed for a moment, then darkened almost to black.

He walked to the near-catatonic girl and took her hand, pressing her limp fingers gently around the glass cylinder. "Drink this," he urged her determinedly, watching for some kind of response. It came, but not from where he had hoped.

The house-elf launched herself at Draco's leg and clamped on with a grip like a miniature hag, screeching in indignation. "Shut up!" he hissed at her. "You're going to wake the whole household!" She subsided into a lower decibel, her words become more distinguishable from one another.

"Master Draco help _bad_ men… _shame_! Pooky not let _poison_ _mistress_…"

Draco huffed in aggravation. "It's Polyjuice, you idiot creature! This _potion_ is the only thing that stands between your mistress and certain death. Unless you wish to be responsible for her demise, I suggest you _move aside_." The last bit was fairly growled, as Draco was conscious of the time slipping away from him. Midnight was long past already.

He turned back to Pansy. The vial was tipping dangerously in her hand, her eyes once again transfixed on the window glare. Draco gasped and righted it, and then his face set in decision and he grasped her shoulders firmly, turning her to face him completely. He blinked away the burning in his eyes as he saw her mutilated face full on once again. He purposely hardened his voice. "You have to drink it Pansy. You _have_ to, it's your only chance. We don't have much time left now."

She shook her head slowly like she was moving through molasses, and spoke to him as if to a child. "Maybe if you had come back before…" she made a vague gesture toward the Dark Mark, and Draco jerked as if struck. "…but it's over now. I'm his." The certain, hollow way she spoke those damning words made Draco's throat close up in terror. What had they done to his smart, indomitable girl? He shook his head violently, unable to speak but fighting her words in his cold heart. He pulled her stiff body forward and hard against his, trying to convey though the contact that she was still alive, still Draco's.

He didn't realize he had said the last part out loud until her voice came, slightly truculent but mostly just so sad— "I was never yours."

A sudden anger blazed brightly in him, and he spoke with unaccustomed emotion. "That's where you're wrong." His voice was unmusical. "We are each other's, have been since the day I saw you hiding in the shadows at the Christmas Ball, trying not to cry as your mother walked away from you." She stiffened at this, and something in him gave a small cheer at finally arousing a reaction.

"Yes well, she's dead now anyway." Her eyes stayed stubbornly on the lacquered floor as she spoke.

Draco's shoulders dropped. "Pans," he said gently. He touched her nose with the tip of his finger. She saw him then, finally, dropped the veil from her eyes so that he could see her. He maintained the precious contact, although he could barely breathe at what he saw in her gaze. He vowed revenge in his secret heart.

"Have I ever lied to you?" Silence greeted his words, brittle and harsh, and it shattered when she spoke, barely audible.

"No." He nodded.

"I'm telling you now, then, to believe me when I say we can outflank these blowhards. They'll never have seen this coming. But you have to _trust_ me. Just once more, Pansy."

"I can't," she whispered.

"You _can_. I've never let you down in the past, and I don't intend to start now. Drink up," he said firmly.

She stared back at him, shaking just enough for him to realize she was holding herself this still only through extreme force of will. He sighed.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asked her bluntly. "So we might die. At least it'll be on our terms, and for a reason. I don't know about you, but I never pictured my last moments as a sitting duck for the Dark Lord. Come on."

He was never sure what it was exactly that finally penetrated her haze, but she stood suddenly and grabbed the still-open vial, gulping down the potion in one go. She fought a heave as the horrid aftertaste assaulted her, clutching at her stomach.

Her bones began lengthening, her features shifting like clay on a potter's wheel. Her cheekbones lifted up and out, and her turned-up nose spread into a much larger hooked one. Her dead straight, mousy brown hair darkened and dirtied, hanging lank and greasy around her now decidedly pale, decidedly _masculine_ visage—which Draco noted with knee-melting relief was devoid now of the tell-tale Dark Mark he had been afraid would linger.

Pansy, meanwhile, stared at her new, larger hands with bewildered distaste. She turned slightly so that Draco was no longer blocking the mirror—and clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a scream. Unfortunately what came out was a rather undead-sounding moan, a few decibels lower than Pansy's own voice. She—he—turned furiously to look at the blond who stood nearby, barely concealed amusement written all over his face.

"_You turned me into SNAPE_?" hissed Pansy venomously. "Are you _insane_?"

Draco made an impatient movement with his head. "I was pressed for time, Pansy, and his hair was the easiest to procure. And besides, who's going to question the presence of Snape at a Death Eater gathering?"

"He isn't even here, Draco. Apparently my father is trying to pull this off on his own, to garner himself favour with—_him_. He's always been jealous of Snape and Lucius."

"I know he isn't here, it wouldn't be too intelligent to have two Snapes running about in the same mansion, now would it? Besides, it would probably bring the apocalypse on early if that much snarkiness was present in the same room." He grabbed her arm and hauled her towards the closed door. "Now let's go."

She dragged her feet. "Wait, what are you doing? They're watching all the exits!"

"Not for Snape and me."

She gave him a pointed look. "What, and they won't bat an eyelash when they see two uninvited guests, both who are associated with me somehow, fleeing like bats out of hell?" She gestured eloquently at her billowing black robes. "Literally."

"We don't have time to come up with an elaborate plan, Pansy! I'm sure father has noticed by now that I'm missing. He's probably madder than a wet hippogriff! I'm in for it anyway, but it's only a matter of time before he figures out where I am. We've got to just dash and hope for the best."

She stared back at him with indecision riding comically on Snape's normally contemptuous features. Then a light dawned. "I've got it!" The Snape-clone suddenly grabbed Draco's arm and dragged him out into the hall, exactly as the latter had done a minute before. Draco struggled in his companion's surprisingly strong grip, sputtering.

"Pansy—_what-are-you-doing_? I thought you had a plan!"

"I do," she said smugly. Draco figured the stress must have addled her brains.

"Pansy," he said slowly and gently, "why don't we stop in a broom closet or something to gather our wits a bit before dashing o—"

She tightened her grip painfully. "I'm not an idiot, Draco, nor am I insane. Just shut up and play along," she snapped.

Draco raised an eyebrow and decided it'd be better to stop while he still had all of his limbs. The added creepiness of Snape's voice issuing Pansy's ultimatum was also no small incentive to shut his mouth.

He realized with a jolt that they were heading speedily toward the front hall of Parkinson Mansion, presumably to the main floo connection there. He swallowed convulsively and looked hard at Snape-Pansy, who was towing him along, cool as you please. The halls were brightening now, lit with more and more torches as they approached the front of the house, and muffled voices could be heard from somewhere ahead of them. Draco began to dig his heels in, certain that his previously rational friend had gone completely round the bend. She stopped short and turned to glare at him, not releasing her grip. Draco swallowed at the prospect of the thunderous visage facing him. _It's just Pansy_, he reminded himself, feeling foolish.

She opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, then simply pinned him with a death glare and turn again, yanking him along behind her. Draco huffed loudly.

They were suddenly out in the open, bright lights all around, dark figures turning to see what they heard, and Draco began to flee in earnest, before he realised that was no longer an option. He gulped. The masked figures approached menacingly, Thaddeus pushing his down so it hung off his neck, exposing his narrow face. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth twisted in distaste.

"May I ask what you two are doing in _my_ residence, Snape?" he bit out with the barest veneer of politeness.

Snape—Pansy—smiled back nastily. "I must thank you for your gracious hospitality, _brother_, but this is not a social visit. Unfortunately." The smirk disappeared from the sallow face, and a pale, calloused hand closed around the scruff of Draco's neck, shaking the boy with force. "My addle-brained _godson_ here," he spat the word with contempt, "has been off paying _social_ calls while his useless father boils at home, waiting for him. Which really matters not a whit to me, except that Lucius was starting to make my head ache abominably." All this was said in a scathing, sarcastic tone that sounded as if it could burn more innocent ears than these.

Draco gasped slightly, very impressed and suddenly realizing he had a part to play here. Fortunately all eyes were on 'Snape'. He began to struggle mightily in his captor's grip, then snapped petulantly, "Let me go! You can't tell me what to do or who to see. Don't you have a life, or is this how you get your kicks—being Father's errand boy?"

Snape jerked Draco around to face him, practically choking him with his grip on his collar. "Listen here, you empty-headed brat, you may always get your way with your foolish parents, but I don't have time for your puerile snivelling. Get your skinny arse into the fireplace!" He began marching Draco roughly to the cavernous hearth, a scowl blackening his face convincingly.

"Hey! I didn't get to see Pansy!" he whined.

Snape leered. "You can continue your debauchery at a later date. There are more important matters to be discussed."

"Yeah, like what? Your nightly vampire-stalking excursions? You ought to realize once and for all that even they find you repulsive. After all, you don't look as if you've got much blood in you," Draco said with a derisive glance at the man who stood before him.

Even the Death Eaters cringed at the look on Snape's face then. He grabbed Draco's hair and yanked him toward the fireplace, ignoring his yelp of pain, threw the blond boy into the flames with one hand and in a practiced motion the floo powder with the other, so that the flames burst green an instant before Draco was engulfed in them. A collective gasp was heard in the room behind them as 'Snape' shouted, "The Leaky Cauldron!" and the two vanished in a roar of oxygen.

"That Snape sure knows how to make a dramatic exit," said one of the masked men admiringly.

Thaddeus scowled. "Oh, just shut up and bring me the girl."

* * *

Two black-cloaked figures stumbled out of the fireplace into a very sleepy tavern. It was still open, but at this hour the only patrons who remained were either half-asleep with their pints in hand, drunk under the table—or else not the sort you'd relish being in a dark room with. 

Draco turned angrily to his companion, who was grinning in wild triumph, and recoiled in horror. "Pansy!" he hissed. "Will you stop smiling with that face on? At this rate I'll have nightmares forever! And you almost burned me alive back there!" This only made her laugh harder, and Draco, fighting a hysterical giggle of his own, led her out into the night where they'd draw less attention. He broke out laughing too as the euphoria set in. "Shit Pansy," he said turning to her, "I always knew you had a mouth on you, but that was quite a performance back there!"

She shrugged modestly, though he could see her eyes flash with pride in the yellow light of the streetlamps. "All I had to do was insult you a few times. Doesn't take too much effort." Her voice was amused, but under the surface was a deep and overwhelming relief, lending a slight tremor to her flippant speech.

Draco was suddenly struck with the enormity of what they had done. _We just waltzed right out of a Dark Ceremony under the noses of five armed Death Eaters._ He shook his head, wide-eyed, and regarded Snape-Pansy with awe, his smile wiped clean. She looked back at him with an identical expression, and they shared a moment on the same wavelength. Then an odd look appeared on her face.

"What's the matter?" asked Draco with sudden dread. Her pasty face turned scarlet, and she turned away, mumbling something unintelligible. His foreboding vanished and trying to hide his amusement at the picture of Snape the Git blushing, he said, "What? Speak louder, Pansy."

She whipped around furiously and snapped, "How much longer do I have to be in this godforsaken body?"

Draco leaned back a bit at her vehemence, then glanced at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since she had swallowed the Polyjuice, though it had felt agonizingly longer. "Forty-five minutes. Which reminds me, we'd better get to Hogsmeade before the stuff wears off. They must have noticed your absence by now."

Pansy's now black eyes widened in dismay upon hearing this unpleasant news. "_Forty-five minutes_? Are you potty, Draco? I have to—" she crossed her long arms and muttered darkly.

"Any time now…"

She covered her face with her hands and moaned, "I have to go to the bathroom."

Draco burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, practically choking in his mirth. Pansy glared. He snorted, and slapped a hand over his nose in horror. Malfoys did _not_ snort. She flashed him an evil grin but his embarrassment had passed already and he was snickering again.

She stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar as she had done at the Mansion, shaking him hard. "It isn't funny, you prat! I have a… a…" Her voice trailed into a whisper.

"A _penis_?" he smirked.

That earned him a swift slap. Draco gave her a brief glare, then motioned her back into the Leaky Cauldron. "After you, Professor," he said mockingly as he opened the door.

Pansy, who had gone very quiet, allowed Draco to lead her to the men's toilet. She cringed when the door opened and a wave of putrid air assaulted them. Gagging, she braced her shoulders and went into a stall, finishing, washing her hands and exiting the washroom as if her pants were on fire. Her face certainly felt like it was. She shot Draco a baleful look of warning, and he fought to keep his face straight after that.

They decided to leave by way of Knockturn Alley's apothecary shop, which had a less conspicuous floo than the Leaky Cauldron, and which both had used reasonably often when out on "errands" with their fathers. Arriving at a dark and silent Three Broomsticks, they crept up the stairs to room 5 and waited as Draco knocked softly on the door. It swung inward immediately, the interior dark. Pansy glanced around uneasily but Draco grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. The door shut quietly behind them.

Bright light flooded the room, and the two blinked, startled. Pansy's eyes soon adjusted and she saw Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and—Snape?

He suddenly advanced on her, forehead creased. Pansy gasped and skittered backward until she was flat against the wall, fear etched plainly on her face as she stared at the man who mirrored her every feature.

* * *

Now to my darling reviewers... 

**dracolov:** Ok, I will. :D And you aren't being rude at all. I think it'sa good idea.

**SlytherinRoyalty:** Hey hey:D Seems odd too be writing to you on here now, but I just _had_ to answer that beautiful review when I read it again. sniff You make me feel so loved. And be on the lookout for an email soon.  
3 And big hugs, I'm so _so_ sorry.

**damned for eternity:** Why thank you, my dear. tips nonexistent hat Hope you like this one too, let me know.:)

**lady-sanctuary:** :) Thanks! Drop me a line on the quality of this one.


	10. Lucius Malfoy

AN: Hey everyone. Sorry for the loooong delay. I've been so sick for the last two months (bad days, remember), and when I'm that sick I can barely form a coherent sentence. So. Hopefully someone out there is still reading this story. ;) Love to all of my reviewers.

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**Chapter 10 **

**Lucius Malfoy  
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_No more tears now; I will think about revenge._

_- Mary, Queen of Scots_

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The words marched black and bold over the official Ministry parchment.

_Crime Report, 8/7/1997_

_Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Ministry of Magic _

_In the case of murdered Muggles Agatha and Prentiss Granger, found in their London residence on 29 June 1997 by daughter Hermione (aged 17, student at Hogwarts, Scotland), the Department of Magical Forensics has established without doubt the following:_

_One—that said crime was committed by followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as evidenced by the Dark Mark that was cast into the air;_

_Two—that the attack was carried out by a standard three-person Death Squad, two male wizards and one female._

_Three—that their Magical signatures, although masked, revealed them to be adults, two middle-aged and one of the males in his youth._

_Four—that through cooperation with Scotland Yard in London, it is known that one of the perpetrators was blond, another brown-haired, and that they have no record of any "finger-marks" for the three in Muggle criminal dossiers (as was expected). The evidence is currently being analysed magically in St. Mungo's research division._

_Five—that causes of death are pinpointed as the following: Mr Granger was tortured to death by prolonged use of the Cruciatus curse from two wands simultaneously; Mrs Granger was exposed briefly to the Cruciatus before being assaulted with the killing curse…_

Hermione froze inside, feeling as if she had been struck with a rough hand. Her face devoid of colour, she bowed her head and tried to appear engrossed in the words, ignoring Dumbledore's receding footsteps. She focused on the one detail she could pinpoint, the blond hair—_Lucius Malfoy_—and forced up the anger inside like bitter bile. Flashing in her mind came visions of a million horrible deaths for the aristocratic reprobate.

As the flash of fire appeared in the corner of her vision, and Hermione released herself from the tense dread she had been maintaining in her muscles since the headmaster had arrived. She flung the parchment across the room with force in a move reminiscent of the glass she had thrown a few days earlier, but it rather disappointingly drifted gently to the ground not a metre away. She slumped and wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering despite the warmth of the July day.

* * *

Hermione crouched in the semi-dark of dawn, her heartbeat crashing in her ears. She held her breath as she peered through the narrow crack of her open bedroom door. The muffled click she had heard from the front hall could mean only one thing. _Dark Magic_. The wards that cradled the Granger's residence were too extensive and secure to have been broken any other way. 

They were in.

Her breath came in strangled gasps, and she suddenly knew with horrified clarity what was coming. She heard muffled footsteps in the front hall and burst out of her room, rushing across the hall to her parents' bedroom, screaming at them to _wake up! Run! They're here! WAKE UP!_ But they slept on, oblivious, expressions of complete peace on their relaxed faces. For a moment she feared they were already dead. Her heart froze in her chest—she stumbled forward and grabbed for her father's arm, only to find to her horror her hand slipping through thin air.

She screamed.

Hermione started to feel a paralyzing panic, eyes darting round the room in caged desperation, looking for a way to reach her mum and dad. Any minute now they'd be mounting the stairs, their slow steady footsteps approaching in a march of doom…

A sudden screeching sound assaulted her ears, and she jerked, realizing as her parents stirred that it was their alarm, sounding much harsher and higher-pitched from so close a distance. (All three Grangers were natural night-owls, and all three had the ingrained habit and philosophy of getting up extremely early in the morning—which partially accounted for their great success, but also necessitated extreme measures for resuscitation.) Hermione saw with a sinking stomach that they were dressing slowly, washing away the sleep and going down for breakfast. A glance at the Hogwarts calendar on the wall—I gave them that last Christmas, she thought—told her it was the day of her ill-fated arrival at King's Cross Station, and she willed down the bile as her eyes confirmed what her heart had known all along.

Her mind, however, had obviously missed the memo, because as her parents opened the door and began to leave her in the empty room, it was coldly wondering why the Death Eaters hadn't burst into the room yet. They would certainly have known where the Grangers would be at this time on a Thursday morning in June; they were evil beyond words, but never stupid… her ever-rational brain followed the thought to its rational conclusion…

They were waiting downstairs.

She shuddered at the sudden chilling certainty, and frantically threw herself between her parents and the open doorway, which suddenly seemed to her to be the gaping maw of some horrible deadly monster—to no avail, of course. They passed through her like mirages in the desert, except that she could still see them; they hadn't disappeared and wouldn't, either, and she'd be forced to watch the past unfold… she felt as if she were in some horrible parody of a penseive, knowing what was to come yet still somehow innocent of it. Forced to experience but powerless to affect.

Except for her knowledge that this was a dream, a nightmare—her mind's masochistic attempt to fill in the details of an event she was grateful not to have witnessed. _Wake up_, she screamed inside her head. _Wake up!_

It was no use. She may have been having a lucid dream, but she was trapped in the horrific landscape of her nightmares, unable to escape no matter how hard she screamed.

* * *

Hermione woke with a tiny moan. The sleeper's scream. It had been worse this time, the details not nearly as blurred. She looked around her in panic, pulse still pounding madly. The letter lay forlorn on the carpet at her feet, and she jerked when she saw it, letting out an involuntary cry. She could still see the words, taunting her, cutting into her heart… _murdered Muggles Agatha and Prentiss Granger… _she gulped as the dream repeated inside her head, unable to escape the images…_ a standard three-person Death Squad… _she saw in her mind's eye the stark white masks, like pale malevolent moons in an unnaturally black sky. Red eyes glinted in her mind, though she had never seen them outside of dreams… _tortured to death… two wands simultaneously… assaulted with the killing curse… killing curse… _she brought up her hands and gripped her head tightly with shaking fingers, willing away the hissing voice in her head. She shuddered and blocked out the portion of her traitorous mind that haunted her at night with imaginings of her parents' death throes, refusing to let them follow her into the waking world. She sobbed loudly, trying to stop the tears from rising, wiping furiously at her eyes. 

This is ridiculous, she thought angrily, pushing the images to the back of her mind with great effort.

Hermione got up and plucked the Ministry paper off the carpet, stuffing it into her pocket without another glance, and marched into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of water from the pantry and walked through the front hall and out the door, stepping into her shoes as she passed them.

The sky was overcast and a light drizzle fell from the pearly sky, giving her pale cheeks a slight sheen. She walked without purpose or direction, eyes on the footpath advancing beneath her scuffed boarders, filling her mind with the mundane image. People passed her, their faces blurred as if roughly sketched with paint, and she kept her gaze on her shoes. Time passed without measure, and then she saw a familiar glass and stone building on her right and took the turn up its drive.

She stopped before the plate-glass double doors, eyeing her reflection in them. A tall thin girl looked back at her with hollow eyes, short hair dark and curled from the damp air, long grey coat and black board shoes, with the navy stripe of her jeans jumping out between them. Gray sky behind her head.

Grey had always been Hermione's favourite colour. On her eighth birthday she had thrown away all her pink, frilly things disgustedly, and decided grey would be her new favourite colour. Sober, sophisticated—grown up. As she so desperately wanted to be. The colour of the sky when it rained, and she felt like dancing mercy was falling on her head. The colour of her mother's eyes. Later it became the colour of Harry's invisibility cloak (freedom) and his Patronus (hope). Ron's favourite socks, patched in different shades of charcoal. The silver of moonlight.

And now it seemed like endless grey surrounded her, and she had put away her old sea-green comforter in the back of her closet and pulled out a shaggy, comfortable greyish-blue one with milk stains from her babyhood; it sweetened the pain at night.

Hermione shook off her dismal thoughts and opened the heavy door, stepping inside. She took a relieved breath and surveyed her surroundings as she walked into the building—polished marble floors from which rose endless stacks of books, all sizes and colours, and the smell of the books and magazines and armchairs and the tang of the floor wax combined in that certain smell to evoke her childhood summers. She'd used to spend all her time in this library, until her father would come to drag her home before sundown, jokingly scolding her all the way (she'd known he was secretly proud of her, though).

She immersed herself in the towering stacks and didn't emerge for hours.

* * *

She walked through the front door, a stack of books under her arm, with an almost alien feeling of satisfaction, she hadn't had it for so long. She locked the door behind her and kicked off her shoes, setting her day's harvest on the bottom stair, and decided that she actually felt hungry, for once. She walked into the cheery kitchen with an almost smile on her face— 

"_Ron_." She stopped dead, eyes wide in her shocked face.

"Erm, hi, Hermione," he said uncertainly. He was sitting at the kitchen table, chair turned and his elbows on his knees, an odd, expectant look on his face. Hermione's pleasant mood disappeared all of a sudden to be replaced with a sick, miserable guilty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Ron smiled nervously, and held out a cat carrier, which was emitting a disturbing level of hissing yowling noises. A bright, surprised bloomed on her face. "Crookshanks! Oh, Ron, you brought him! Thank you."

Ron blushed and shrugged. "He wasn't… er… very _happy_ when he realized you had left."

Hermione had meanwhile taken a very affronted Crookshanks out of his wicker carrier—who was glaring at her in that supercilious way that only a cat can manage—and was petting him affectionately in an attempt to assuage his assaulted pride. "Sorry, Crooks," she crooned. "I had a lot of stuff on my mind…" she trailed off and her expression grew stony again. She appreciated Ron's effort; his casual manner notwithstanding, she knew how much animosity her cat and her boyfriend—former boyfriend, she thought with a wince—had for each other. His generosity brought a fresh surge of guilt to the surface, and the momentary excitement at seeing her cat suddenly turned stale and flat. The silence lingered and grew between them, neither knowing what to say.

Ron blinked at her, noticing her changed appearance for the first time. She looked awful, but being with Hermione had cured him of at least his most obvious blunders, so he said instead, "You cut your hair."

"Obviously," she replied, narrowing her eyes. She covered her sudden misery with annoyance. "What are you doing here, Ron?"

"Your Auror let me in."

"Ron," she said warningly.

He flushed and looked away, revealing a flash of hurt in his blue eyes. Fiddling with his fingers, he mumbled, "I wanted to talk." He seemed to gather some courage. "We need to talk, Ba—Hermione." She cringed at the familiar, incomplete endearment.

"About what?" she asked abruptly.

He let out a shaky breath. "I just wanted to tell you… I mean… do you still feel the same way as the last time we spoke?" There was an embarrassingly vulnerable look in his eyes as he looked up at her.

She huffed in real irritation. "Well, I don't see why I wouldn't, Ronald, considering that nothing has changed."

He got that stubborn look around his mouth then. "Look Hermione, I realize you're grieving, and I respect that, but I wish you'd let me in so I could help. I've been going mad with worry these past two weeks. Harry won't even let me come with him. I just don't understand why you're freezing me out like this!"

Hermione stared back at him in disbelief. "And _I_ can not for the life of me imagine why you think the world revolves around you! You are _unbelievable_. I don't want to talk to you about—even Harry was a bit of a stretch, but at least _he_ can understand what I'm going through! While you, Ronald, with your sickeningly whole, sickeningly happy family, can _not_!" Her voice softened at this. "Nor do I ever want you to, because I love the lot of you, and I'd never wish this pain on you, Ron. I just…" she sighed and dropped into a kitchen chair, folding her arms on the table. Her eyes fell on the flowery pattern of the tablecloth and her bony shoulders slumped. Dropping her head onto her arms, she didn't speak for a long while. The kitchen clock ticked in the heavy silence. Ron, thinking she had fallen asleep, rose reluctantly to leave, when a muffled voice sounded on the other side of the table.

"You really want to help me?"

He blinked, not sure where she was going with this, but seizing the chance to prove himself to her. "Er… yes! Of course I do. Anything you want."

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. Ron shrank back involuntarily at the cold, cold look in her eyes. "Dumbledore brought me the Ministry report this morning. About my parents," she added when he blinked in confusion. His eyes widened. "It said… well… there were three of them, and one…" she took a deep breath. "One of them had blond hair. Most likely male, and middle aged."

Ron gasped, going pale. "_Lucius Malfoy_," he breathed, saying the words as if they were cursed, filthy.

"My thoughts exactly," Hermione replied grimly. "It couldn't be anyone else, really. He's high enough in the ranks that it's plausible Voldemort would trust him with something so… strategically important." _Gruesome_, her mind substituted. She fell silent.

Ron cleared his throat, his eyes blazing with a deadly rage. "But what can I do, Hermione?" he asked, his voice hoarse with suppressed anger. "Malfoy is—he's untouchable."

She stood, steel in her gaze. "No one is untouchable. We just have to find a way to get to him. Because I swear to you, I won't rest until I have his blood on my hands, Ron." Ron stared at her in shock, not recognizing the side of Hermione manifesting itself before him. Where was the sweet forgiving girl he loved? But then, he thought with a burning mind, she had been destroyed along with her parents. And he'd best remember that.

Besides, _he_ felt rather murderous towards the demonic Malfoy, and he imagined her feelings were hundreds of times stronger than his. He sighed, and closed the distance between them, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I know you don't feel that I can relate, and I can't, but—how are you feeling, really? Harry won't tell me anything"—he held up his hand before she could speak—"and I'd hoped that underneath everything else, we're still the best of friends, Hermione. And friends want to ease each other's pain. Friends would die for one another."

He looked down and smiled half-heartedly. "And about before… I'm sorry for pushing that on you." He mumbled the last with shame colouring his face and voice. "I... forgive me?"

Guilt tugged at her insides. He looked up at her with his shaggy hair falling in his face, hope and chagrin in his sad blue eyes, like a naughty puppy. For a moment, she was reminded forcibly of Sirius Back, and she took a shaky breath. And then smiled slightly. "Of course I forgive you. Only, forgive me too? For hurting you?"

He grabbed her and hugged her tightly, and it was like it had been in the old days, when they were a boy and a girl, awkward best friends, seeing each other for the first time after a long separation. Except this time it was _he_ who was squeezing the breath out of _her_. She laughed a bit. "Can't breathe, Ronniekins," she jibed with a hint of the familiar teasing. He pulled back, flushed but pleased.

"Don't call me that, _Herm-own-ninny_," he said with a mock glare. They both smiled.

She turned serious then, her brows coming together in an look of fierce determination. "Will you get Harry, then?" He opened his mouth, his head full of doubts, but thought better of protesting when he saw the come-hell-or-high-water expression he recognized so well. He sighed and followed her to the family room, where he watched in silence as she unlocked the fireplace with a whispered password and started a fire in the grate. He tossed the powder in and shouted into the green flames, and as he was swept through the Floo network, he felt uneasiness creep over him like soot.

* * *

Harry stumbled into the room after Ron, both looking rather agitated as they greeted Hermione, who had been pacing impatiently in front of the hearth, muttering obscure facts to keep her mind from running away with her. She turned an intense gaze on them, her eyes almost glittering in the firelight. The room was dim, as the sky outside had darkened with dusk and she had neglected to turn on any lights. 

"Harry! Did Ron tell you? I think—"

"Yeah, he told me. Hermione, are you out of your _mind_?" He took in her dishevelled appearance; her unbrushed hair, the almost desperate glimmer in her eyes. Something wasn't right about her expression.

She stopped and blinked at him, offended. "What? Don't you want to help me? After all we've been through, Harry—I mean the three of us, we're unstoppable! And Lucius Malfoy—"

"Is a deranged psychopath," snapped Harry, his eyes starting to spark familiarly. "And he's extremely intelligent. You of all people should know never to underestimate your enemy, and he is a formidable one! You obviously haven't thought this through properly—"

"_Pardon_ me, Harry," Hermione interrupted sharply, "_I_ haven't thought this through? Out of the three of us, _I'm_ the one who always—"

"Which is exactly why it bothers me to see you acting so irrationally! Hermione, I know that you're grieving but you _can't_ just waltz into _Malfoy Manor_ and _kill its master_! You aren't _thinking_."

Hermione inhaled sharply, a dangerous look coming onto her delicate features. "_Harry Potter_. I lost my parents, not my mind. I'm no idiot, and by no means do I underestimate Malfoy—nor do I have any illusions about the nature of this undertaking. But he is just a Death Eater—a _man_, not some semi-divine being."

She held up a hand to forestall their words of protest. "Don't you think Voldemort wants to see me broken and despairing over this? Well, I refuse to give that _thing_ the satisfaction. There is _no—bloody_—_way_ I'm going to sit back and let my parents' murders float through the system, waiting for justice to be served or miscarried, according to the latest whim of a castrated, _cowering_ Ministry!" They flinched. Hermione had almost growled the last bit, breathing heavily, her pale forehead damp with sweat. She sighed and seemed to deflate, looking awfully small and fragile all of a sudden.

Then her expression hardened with resolve. "This is my fight, boys, and I am going to battle. You can fight at my side—or not. Your choice entirely." Her face looked cold and foreign to her best friends, her brothers who had known her so long, yet had never seen her in this state: half-wild and despairing under a cold mask of vengeful anger. Harry felt a pain in his chest as he recognized her look as his own after Sirius had fallen.

The two boys exchanged a troubled glance, coming instantly to an unspoken decision.

Ron stepped forward and squeezed Hermione's shoulder.

"We're with you, Hermione," said Harry with a weary smile.

He couldn't ignore the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, however, and fought off the irrational certainty that something was about to go very wrong.

* * *

Two quiet pops sounded in the darkened living room, one following on the other. The doorway let in some golden light from the kitchen, which spilled into the room by way of the corridor that ran the length of the house. Silhouetted in the dim light, two figured stood in the room which a moment ago had been quite empty. "Hermione?" one of them called. 

"In here," came an answering voice. They walked out the open doorway and into the kitchen, where she sat at the table, a map spread out before her, brow furrowed. She lifted her head and smiled slightly at them. "Hi, boys. Ready?"

They certainly looked ready. Both wore rough clothes (although Hermione suspected they would have anyway, as it was summer) and carried knapsacks on their backs, each clutching a broomstick in one fist. They had rather grave expressions on their determined faces, and Hermione felt her own weak smile wither.

"…So," she started, "Do you have your checklists? Did you make sure—"

"Relax, Hermione," said Ron. "We've got everything you specified. Although," he wrinkled his freckled nose in puzzlement, "I have no ruddy idea why we'd need a ."

She answered with a trace of her customary manner. "We have to be ready for every eventuality, Ron. There's no excuse for rushing into this without proper preparation."

At the mention (however obligue) of what they were going into, each admitted to himself that "properly prepared" or not, dread filled their bellies at the thought of what they were about to attempt.

"This is insane," said Harry with a flat laugh.

No one spoke for a second. Then Hermione seemed to regain a bit of her trademark spunk and retorted, "Oh, look who's talking! You've led us into more mad situations than any rational human being could dream up. And it's been bloody _wicked_, Harry." She grinned. Harry and Ron grinned back, after an eyebrow raise from the former and a mutter of "hypocrite" from the latter at her uncharacteristic language. They felt a surge of confidence, of energy, that only happened when they worked together on something.

"Let's do it." Three spoke as one.

Hermione gathered up the map she had been studying with such concentration and stuffed it into a side pocket of her own knapsack, then slipped the bag's straps over her slight shoulders and gripped her wand. She doused the light with a flick of her wrist.

They Apparated out simultaneously.

Not ten minutes later, a small brown owl came down through the chimney and alighted on the kitchen table, releasing from its talons a slim envelope addressed in green ink. It left again as silently as it had come, the letter lying unnoticed upon the tablecloth.

* * *

To my beautiful reviewing people: 

professional toilet flusher: I dunno. Maybe more to the point, where are Merlin's balls?

HOT4HARRYPOTTER: Well, I decided to take the road less traveled. What do you think:)

Athena Linborn: Thank you! blush I love your work, and I'm so pleased that you like it! Sorry for the long wait. I hope the new chapter was up to par.

gyrlfriend: Thanks! Here it is.

kriCket x0: Oh, thank you. It's late, but it's here. ;)

lady-sanctuary: Thanks dude. Yeah, I was really sick of the usual fanfic!Pansy. I didn't want to make her all nice, but I am trying to give her a bit of depth. Hopefully it works.

Fire Magus: Yeah, I think it's really unnatural how a lot of times grief is portrayed in fics. It gives on the sneaking suspicion that perhaps the death is just a cheap plat device. (shock horror) Thank you for you beautiful words. I hope I can live up to you expectations. :)

emily: I'm glad.

anon: Why thank you! There was way too much dramatics going on in the last chapter. I thought the comic relief might be needed.

Kat: Sure, here it is. Better late than never, I always say.

chocolatlvr16: Sorry, Malfoy and Pansy will be in the next chapter. I hope you enjoyed this one though.

Kayti: Thank you for you effusive praise! I'm sure I don't deserve it all, but I won't say no! And if you're having fun reading it, well, what more can I ask, really.

Miranda: Thank you. Here it is. ;)

* * *

AN2: The next chapter will refocus on Draco and Pansy. What will Snape say when he sees his double? How will Pansy react to Dumbledore and McGonagall? And most importantly, how will they save Pansy from the Dark Lord?... Stay tuned, my friends. ;) 

And please, drop a line to let me know how I'm doing. Even if you hate it. :D


	11. Metamorphosis

**

* * *

Chapter 10**

**Metamorphosis

* * *

**

_Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. _ – William S. Burroughs

Pansy watched in terror as her Head of House, the man she knew as a Death Eater in the Dark Lord's service, a man she had been secretly terrified of since first year, slowly advanced on her. The wall was hard at her back, and the trauma of the evening past finally began to catch up with her.

Snape, for his part, raised an eyebrow at seeing his duplicate standing before him, and stepped forward. Pansy made a distressed squeak—or what would have been one if she'd had her normal vocal chords. It came out sounding rather disturbing. Draco stepped quickly in front of her and grabbed her arm gently. "It's all right, Pans, he isn't a Death Eater."

She stared up at him as if he'd gone mad. "Not a Death Eater? Then what's this, eh?" she yanked up her left robe sleeve and brandished Snape's long, pale arm with its glaring Dark Mark. Snape flinched. She glared at him. "Oh, so now it bothers you? What about last week, when you sat in the Dark Lord's meeting and plotted how to exploit innocent young girls for greed and bloodlust? Conveniently insane, then, were you?" it was decidedly bizarre to see Snape the Second yelling at Snape the First, who was looking more angry and guilty by the second, frowning murderously at his mirror image.

"Be silent, Miss Parkinson, and do not speak of that which you do not understand," Snape hissed, obviously reaching the end of his patience.

Pansy slumped against the wall, shaking her head and lifting a hand in a staying motion. "Just leave me alone," she said tiredly, and her voice was higher and closer to its normal tone. Her body began to shorten and shrink, and her hair regained its usual dark brown before the eyes of Draco and the three professors.

Draco stepped in front of her. "She's tired, Professor," he addressed Snape, rather sharply. "Let her rest tonight." It didn't sound like a suggestion.

Snape regarded his godson a moment with unfathomable eyes, then nodded. "The potion I am brewing for her does not yet require her presence. I will call here tomorrow morning." With that, he turned to sweep out of the room, ostensibly to return to the castle.

"Severus," called the Headmaster mildly. Snape stopped mid-stride but did not turn. "Take Miss Parkinson with you, if you please. I believe the skills of Madam Pomfrey would not go amiss in this situation."

Snape turned and scowled at this. "And announce the child's presence to all and sundry? I highly doubt that would be a sensible course of action. Sir."

"Hogwarts is rather more secure than the Three Broomsticks," chided Dumbledore. "Miss Parkinson need not be set up in the foremost cot in the infirmary."

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. "Come along then," he gestured at Pansy. She gulped and followed, holding tight to Draco's bony wrist. Dumbledore waved them off with assurances that he would join them shortly, and Snape Disillusioned the teenagers and led them out.

-:-:-:-:-:-

Draco stumbled out of the Floo and into Malfoy Mansion's entrance hall, dishevelled and weary from his eventful night. He stopped short when he saw the impressive figure of Lucius Malfoy standing imperiously before him, arms crossed.

"Where have you been?"

Draco fidgeted with his sleeve, realizing he was still in his pyjamas, and avoided his father's gaze. "I, er… went to visit Pansy."

"In the middle of the night. In your nightclothes? Without bothering to _inform_ us of your sudden urge to see your worthless girlfriend?"

Draco's blinked, more at the word 'worthless' than at the continued assumption on his parents' part that she was his girlfriend. "No, I… she owled me," he said dumbly.

Lucius favoured his son with an extremely contemptuous look. "She _owled_ you."

Draco tried to make his brain function despite the absolute overload of information currently buzzing through it. He remembered that he had left the note in his room, meaning his parents had probably found it—and the fact that he had been seen by Thaddeus Parkinson and who knew what other associates of his father at Pansy's. He looked up and met Lucius' eyes. "She sounded like she was in trouble. So I went."

Lucius made a face. "How _heroic_ of you." The unspoken jab cut at Draco, as it had been intended to. _Trying to be like Potter again?_ His father's disdain when he had bought him a spot on the Quidditch team, second year, still smarted.

There was a long pause. Draco realized it was one of expectation when Lucius huffed, "And?"

Draco blinked and thought quickly. "She wasn't there—I mean, not in her room, anyway. I don't know, they were acting pretty suspicious about the whole thing."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "They? The Parkinsons?"

A thought bloomed in Draco's mind as he considered the situation. Parkinson had seen him leave with Snape, and undoubtedly would be expecting him to—"The Death Eaters."

The reaction was as immediate as it was unsurprising. "_What_?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "Apparently they were having a meeting. Looked like the Dark Lord had been there too, or was on his way. Full regalia, and all that." He watched the older man out of the corner of his eye. Lucius looked apoplectic.

Draco jerked as Lucius grabbed the front of his pyjama shirt. "What did he say to you? What are they planning? Details, Draco!" Squirming, the young man twisted his mouth into an expression of put-upon boredom.

"I don't _know_, Father. Why would they tell me anything? You obviously weren't invited—" Oops. He winced. Definitely the wrong thing to say. Lucius had not needed to hear that particular truth spoken. The fist gripping Draco's clothing clenched, digging into his sternum painfully. Draco closed his eyes, bracing himself for the coming invective, but his father was silent, and he opened them again. Lucius' nostrils were flared, eyes fixed somewhere over Draco's left shoulder, his face unusually red and clashing with his white-blond hair.

Draco waited for his father to do something, his instincts of self-preservation preventing him from making any move to become noticeable again.

Finally, Lucius came back to himself, and unclenching his hand, shoved his son roughly away from him and across the slick marble floor.

He left the room with a flare of his cloak, muttering balefully under his breath.

-:-:-:-:-:-

The quiet room sectioned off behind the back storeroom of the hospital wing was dim, one dingy window letting in filtered sunlight through its narrow panes.

Pansy stirred upon the standard-issue hospital bed, her face smarting with a fierceness that had her suddenly awake, rigid and gasping. She sat up in a tangle of sheets, wincing in pain and memory, and gingerly touched the grotesque horror that marred her visage. The skin had healed, but the Mark burned with Dark Magic.

She could almost feel _his_ slithering voice in her ear, whispering, _I own you. _A flick of the forked tongue._ You are mine_. She shuddered with remembered fear and revulsion. _Little girl_, he had said to her, red eyes glowing unnaturally, as he drew his smooth wand across her face in a chilling mockery of a caress.

_I will fuck your pretty mortal soul, little girl._

And then he had looked into her eyes with those hypnotic, evil orbs of his and _pulled_ her mind, and the images and sensations had assaulted her like a physical blow.

She had seen, then, the doom he had prepared for her.

Seen him clasping her in his maggoty white hands, pressing her up to his cadaverous form… felt her essence being ripped out of her very bones, spirit rent from heart… something dark and slimy and intangible rising from him, thrusting into her once, twice, again and his harsh breathing and the unbearable flashes of pain and her on the floor, shell of a body and empty eyes—and then Pansy had been running through the Dark Lord's veins, singing through his blood, screaming out in such _ecstasy_—

And had come back to herself, collapsed at his feet as he watched her in cold triumph, shaking with the weakening aftershocks of pain and a dark, unholy pleasure burning in her soul.

Pansy leaned over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor.

-:-:-:-:-:-

Professor Snape brought Pansy the potion he had brewed for her the next day. It was a putrid horror of some indeterminate colour between green, brown and grey, smelling like sulphur and sweat. Pansy fought the urge to retch as she had in the night.

"What is this for?" she asked the dour man warily. Draco had explained Snape's precarious position to her as they had walked back to Hogwarts the night before, but she was still far from comfortable with the man knowing her secrets. He had, however, orchestrated her escape from the Dark Lord and her insane father, and she supposed she was grateful to him for that.

It was Dumbledore who answered her question from his position at her bedside, comfortably ensconced in a squishy magenta armchair. "The potion will allow us to alter your physical appearance, and when combined with a number of complicated transfigurations, the change will become permanent, anchored in your very bones and blood." She saw suddenly that Professor McGonagall stood slightly behind the Headmaster, tall and stern.

Pansy gaped. "Permanent? But why can't—" her shoulders drooped in realization. "Of course. Because the Dark Mark is permanent."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "That and, we can't risk you being in a transient state at any time; it would leave you vulnerable to discovery. If we were to use Polyjuice, not only would it be unpleasant and inconvenient, but—" he shared a look with Snape—"students in this school have rather less privacy than professors."

Pansy wrinkled her brow, not understanding for a second.

_Ah. Crouch_.

That had certainly been embarrassing for the Dark Lord. Losing his one faithful follower. Pansy had heard her father griping about his horrible mood for weeks the summer after fourth year. It had made for a rather _Crucio_-happy newly risen Dark Lord.

She returned her gaze to the bilious potion. "So, erm… what will I look like? Can I choose?" she looked anxiously at Snape, hoping she wouldn't be subjected to some monstrosity of a body—disguise was all well and good, but a girl had her limits.

Snape smirked at her concern, obviously amused that she could care about such vanities at a time like this. It was Dumbledore who answered her question.

"Because it does not draw on the appearance of a currently living person like Polyjuice, the Metamorph potion needs to be infused with instructions of a sort—rough guidelines that will work with your existing body structure and adjust to the new appearance using it as a foundation. Because it isn't forcing one's body into a form not rightfully its own, it is also much less painful than Polyjuice potion."

Pansy absorbed all this, nodding to show that she understood.

"So… that's what the transfigurations are for then—the guidelines?"

"Precisely, Miss Parkinson." McGonagall stepped forward, inclining her head in greeting. "I will work with you to determine how drastic a change you are comfortable with, and we will go from there."

Pansy felt a ball of nervous energy roil in her empty stomach. She had been too anxious at breakfast to eat anything, and now she was glad of the fact—she suddenly felt rather sick.

"First of all, we can only make you taller, not shorter. This is because when we stretch your bones, we will be able to add bone mass to make them strong and healthy, but we have no way to reduce bone mass."

_Stretch _her _bones_? That sounded excruciating! Pansy swallowed nervously. "Well, Professor, I wouldn't want to be any shorter anyway. I'm practically a midget." Pansy had always been small, although it hadn't bothered her before everyone had hit their growth spurts; in first year she had been almost as tall as Draco. Now, though, he was at least a head taller than her, and she didn't like it.

"All right then. Now, what colour skin will you have? Would you prefer to keep yours, or go darker? And your hair will have to change accordingly, of course."

Pansy stared. She felt like she was having some bizarre sort of beauty consultation, and with McGonagall no less – was there ever a less likely candidate for a conversation about changing one's hair colour? It was extremely odd, and for a moment she couldn't say anything. Then the import of the old woman's words sank in, and she began to think about it. _I always have felt that I was too pale_, she thought. She opened her mouth to speak.

McGonagall held up her hand, forestalling her. "I feel I should tell you, Miss Parkinson, that this is not an opportunity to realize all your adolescent dreams of beauty. I certainly won't make you look unpleasant, but we don't want you to look unusually beautiful either. The point here is for you to be inconspicuous."

Pansy wrinkled her nose in irritation. That was harsh, you old prune. But the woman did have a point, so she managed an almost polite, "All right, fine. What do _you_ suggest, Professor?"

McGonagall ignored the slight sarcasm, and looked at Pansy appraisingly. "I'd say probably a darker skin colour, maybe a medium brown, and black hair. If you keep your skin tone, it might appear that you have only charmed your hair."

Pansy nodded, feeling anxious about how casually they were discussing her new body. "And my eyes? Will they have be a boring, muddy brown as well?" she asked petulantly. _Like Granger's._

McGonagall's mouth twitched, and Pansy could have sworn the old professor had almost smiled. "I think we can indulge you on the eye colour – nothing too outrageous, mind you."

Pansy considered for a moment. She'd always wanted blue eyes, but she wasn't stupid enough to think that they wouldn't draw comment combined with her new features. "All right, how about a sort of hazel?"

McGonagall nodded. "That's fine. And you just made my job easier; hazel is the easiest to create, as it's a combination of colours rather than a clear, pure one. Those are much more difficult to manage properly." She stood. "Right then. Time for your potion."

Madame Pomfrey, who'd been hovering nearby during their conversation, now handed Pansy that disgusting-looking potion she had seen Snape holding earlier. Speaking of which… she noticed with surprise that Dumbledore and Snape had left without her noticing. She was grateful they were gone, though. This – metamorphosis she supposed she could call it, was an immensely private thing. Bad enough she had these two witnessing, but her Headmaster and the Head of Slytherin? She shuddered.

Gripping the glass beaker tightly, she stared down at the vile glop with a grimace. Her mother had used to make her drink down potions quickly and get them over with, so that's what she did now. One long, stomach-turning swallow, and it was over. _Bleargh_.

After that there was along, exhausting battery of spells, stretching her bones in small segments (that _hurt_), slowly darkening her skin to the desired hue, changing the very makeup of her hair follicles to make black hair grow, and a delicate operation on her eyes. Two hours later, both Pansy and McGonagall were exhausted and sweating, and Pomfrey forced them to stop and take a rest.

Since the potion would only last so long, the matron gave Pansy an hour's worth of sleeping draught and made her take a nap. When she rose it started again, but this time the changes were to her face, something Pansy was _very_ nervous about. So she held a hand mirror and watched the Transfiguration professor work. McGonagall was, Pansy admitted grudgingly, a master of her craft. She transformed Pansy's features so gradually that she didn't notice the incremental changes – though she was watching them – until she suddenly realized that the person in the mirror no longer looked like Pansy Parkinson.

McGonagall sat back, panting. "What do you think?" she asked gravely.

Pansy considered the face. It was longer than hers, to fit her longer body, she supposed; her eyebrows were slightly thicker and curved more; her mouth was fuller and her chin rounder. And she no longer had the nose that had caused her no end of ugly nicknames – it was long and straight, with a slight bump in the middle.

"I look like I'm related to the Patils." Although those two were raving beauties. But really, this wasn't a bad face. It was pretty in an quiet sort of way, and she liked her eyes, they were a sort of green-brown colour that went well with the rest of her face. Pansy was, frankly, quite impressed.

She looked up. "Will I grow?" she asked. After all, she was only seventeen, and not in her full growth yet.

McGonagall looked at her seriously. "You will grow," she affirmed. "But only as much as you would have in your own – well, your _previous_ body."

_My previous body_, Pansy thought with a start. _Does that ever sound odd._ She looked up at the woman who had taught her for six years, whom she had always disparaged to her friends and been somewhat in awe of.

"Thank you, Professor."

McGonagall smiled. "You are welcome, Pansy."

-:-:-:-:-:-

Draco stared at the blank parchment before him, making absent-minded swirls with his expensive quill. Sighing, he dipped its nib in his worked-platinum inkpot, loading it with liquid. He slashed the wet point across the page, watching as the vibrant blue letters flowed out from it, spelling _The Rise and Fall of Grindelwald_. It looked sufficiently impressive for a title.

Draco dropped his forehead to the cool desk, feeling strangely dissatisfied. He smelled the fresh scent of the parchment and surrendered, finally, to the tangle of thoughts that had been trying to clog his mind in the few days since he'd left Pansy at Hogwarts. It had been unutterably odd to see two Snapes walking around—one sneering, one terrified—but it had been horrifying when Pansy had turned back into herself, and he'd once again seen the hideous Mark blighting her face. Draco had never seen Snape so rattled.

He'd felt ambivalent about leaving her there, the oddness of Dumbledore and Snape's partnership making him uneasy, but he had recognized that his life was already in their hands; anything else he did now would be sickles compared to the great betrayal he had made that earlier that night.

Even now, Draco shuddered to imagine Lucius' reaction if he ever found out what had transpired in the Three Broomsticks, almost a week ago. Having never directly defied his father, Draco had no idea how far Lucius' wrath might stretch; what he might be willing to do in punishment. Draco already knew, as he had admitted to Pansy, that Lucius would sacrifice him in a heartbeat for his Master's cause; and now he realized that this meant there really was no limit to what his father might do to him, in revenge for his treason.

Treason. There was an ugly word. But Draco wasn't so naïve that he ddn't recognize his actions for just that. On some level he realized that he'd deserve anything Lucius—and by extension the Dark Lord—chose to throw at him, but he was no self-sacrificing martyr. Draco would run if things came to such an impasse, and he knew it.

His father probably knew it too.

Draco stared at the page again, and wrote the date neatly in its upper right corner.

-:-:-:-:-:-

"A Hufflepuff?" Pansy snorted in outraged disbelief.

"Hufflepuffs are known for their tenacity, their adaptability. They have strength."

"And loyalty," pointed out Pansy, as if it were something to be ashamed of. "No one could accuse me of having _that_ particular flaw."

"There are many kinds of loyalty, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore said enigmatically. "I believe you may find yourself in possession of the greatest of them all, before this is over."

She stared at him, not knowing what to say in the face of his complete and utter barminess. Was he challenging her? Or was this just more of that incomprehensible hippogriff-shite he was always spouting? She shifted her gaze to the polished floor of the infirmary, noticing the way it reflected the torchlight in little gleams.

"Besides," he said, some humour back in his voice, "I think it isn't just a question of which house you are suited to, but also which house would be suited to _you_."

Pansy looked up quickly, narrowing her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, you certainly can't go into Gryffindor… unless you want to, that is?" His eyes twinkled and she bared her teeth a bit. "—and Slytherin is out of the question, of course. I doubt you would be very comfortable in Ravenclaw."

She glared at him, instantly on the defensive. "Oh? Think I'm too stupid for it? My marks—"

"Are perfectly adequate," he said, cutting her off smoothly. "However, Ravenclaws are both too observant and too sceptical for any stay of yours with them to be comfortable."

She watched him warily, unwilling to let go of her tense stance yet, and his look became more serious.

"After all, Miss Parkinson, consider the circumstances—a new student, in her seventh year nonetheless, with a mysterious past and an unrecognizable name? Ravenclaws tend to be almost unhealthily curious; any mystery they encounter is taken as a literal challenge. And they are the house with the most unity and cooperation among themselves, less likely to be swayed by emotion." He smiled again. "I am speaking, of course, in the most general terms. I would not hold everyone in that house to those particular standards; however, there is a reason for the Sorting Hat's use, and it would be folly to put you in danger by ignoring such an obvious consideration."

Pansy nodded, allowing herself to relax somewhat. "I understand." _But I don't have to like it_, she added mutinously to herself. Looking down at her unfamiliar hands, she felt suddenly overwhelmed.

She missed the look of sympathy that creased the headmaster's face.

-:-:-:-:-:-

They set her up in one of Hogwarts' travelling guest rooms, which tended to appear and disappear periodically along its corridors, on the ancient castle's whim. Pansy was leery of making even a temporary home in such a place, but Dumbledore assured her she needn't worry.

"It will recognize its occupant, and remain here as long as you need it. Its sole function, after all, is to take care of its guests." Pansy wasn't sure what to think about this implication that the stone and mortar building was somehow sentient. He gave her the password and instructions on how to change it, as well as directions to the Great Hall from the unfamiliar location.

So she was installed in an impersonal room with tasteful if unimpressive furnishings. Pansy regarded her trunk full of new belongings and wished for home, and her own ridiculously extravagant canopy bed. She felt a stab of mingled pain and anger at the thought. She could no longer call Parkinson Mansion a home of any sort; and despite any nostalgic feelings she might have about it, she wouldn't return now even if she could. A shudder racked her slender frame as the memory of the marking ceremony crept into her mind. She forcibly pushed away the image of those lecherous red eyes.

She got up and paced the carpet, feeling caged and restless despite her exhaustion. At least she was free of that hideous Mark, her only remaining scars the invisible kind—although the price she had paid for that freedom had been painful and exacting. Pansy winced, feeling ghost pain throb through her bones, which had been so unmercifully stretched by the potion. Pomfrey had assured her that the pain was only to be expected, and would be temporary. Pansy noted that the dumpy mediwitch hadn't seemed to be able to meet her eyes when she said this, and wondered how long exactly 'temporary' meant.

She sighed bitterly and dropped onto the bed. She was so tired—almost too tired to sleep, and definitely too edgy. She wished for Draco, for the comfort of his familiar presence and his entertaining sarcasm, the way he always irritated her with his comments, that bloody smirk that drove her up the wall, and meant home.

_Home_.

There was that bloody word again.

She rolled over on the cotton duvet and buried her face in a pillow, vainly willing sleep to come.

-:-:-:-:-:-

Draco stared in disbelief.

His gaze flicked back and forth between the parchment in his left hand and shining metal badge gripped tightly in his right.

Head Boy.

But—

"_That will no longer be necessary, Mr. Malfoy."_

The Headmaster's words skittered around in his head, mocking him. Was it possible he has misunderstood Dumbledore's words? Could he have meant the opposite of what Draco had assumed?

He recalled the timing of the statement, after he had spilled the Dark Lord's secrets to the leader of the opposition. He had asked when his headship interview would take place, and the old man had answered in the negative, dashing his hopes.

Could it be that Draco had gained this position on his own merit? That his actions, rash and spontaneous and selfish, had changed the Headmaster's opinion of him?

_Head Boy._

It certainly seemed so. The realization stunned him.

A slow smile spread over his narrow face. He shouldn't have felt so pleased by the approbation, especially considering its source—Lucius would be livid if he knew—but he couldn't help himself. Much as he had always derided Dumbledore's ideas, most of his disdain had stemmed from his upbringing, and the fact that he knew the old man considered Draco to be rather below his notice. The fact remained, however, that Albus Dumbledore was arguably the most powerful wizard of the age, perhaps paralleled only by the Dark Lord, though Lucius tended to conveniently brush this fact aside, calling him an old fool, mocking him to his face.

Draco scowled. Lucius. It was his own bloody fault if Draco felt validated by this appointment, which he had earned himself (_himself!_)—after all, it wasn't as if Lucius had ever praised his son for independent thought or action. No, the only time Draco had ever gotten even a glimmer of approval from his father was when he'd been acting the part of Little Lucius.

He shook off these bitter thoughts, refusing to brood. He wouldn't let them interfere with his moment of triumph. And oh, what a triumph indeed… the very idea that he, _Draco Malfoy_, had beaten out Potter for the head boy position, chosen by _Dumbledore_, who favoured the golden boy as if he was his own son! The thought sent Draco into paroxysms of almost indecent joy. He smirked at Potter's imagined reaction, and that of his two hangers-on—

Ah, yes. The Mudblood.

He grinned. How he would enjoy rubbing her face in _this_. She'd be utterly shocked, he knew, indignant even. That sour little mouth of hers would narrow into a disapproving line, and she'd be channelling McGonagall out her ears. She would be Head Girl, of course (_self-righteous swot_), but he was expecting that—he had one up on her.

Granger, on the other hand, would be absolutely gobsmacked at his appointment. No way the fluffy-headed bint would ever expect _Draco Malfoy_ to be her counterpart. She didn't see him as even her equal, let alone defer to him as she should, and that had always infuriated him. But now…He sighed happily. He'd been wanting to put her in her filthy place for _ever_ so long.

This was definitely going to be his year.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the LONG delay! I've had this mostly written for a while now, but I was stuck on some parts for a while, plus I've (idiotically) started a new fic. (If you like Penelope Clearwater, go to my author page and check it out.) And I started university, which is taking over my life.

I wanted to show in this chapter that although Draco cares about Pansy a lot, he is still a pretty selfish person. He doesn't think about her too much once he leaves her, and when is very wrapped up in his own concerns. But he _is_ growing up – it just doesn't happen overnight.

Also, tell me what you think about the scene with Pansy and Voldemort? Too intense? Too lame? Too silly? I want feedback!

Next chapter: Hermione, Harry and Ron's mission to find Lucius - just how badly does it crash and burn? Who do they find there? What about the owl that came for Hermione right after they left? Stay tuned! (I don't know exactly when this will ba done, since I have midterms next week, but it'll definitely be after those.)

And as always, thanks for reading, guys.


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